Fractured Perceptions
by Clarinet
Summary: Postseries. As Mikage slowly loses his mind, Akio manipulates him in a search for Anthy. Utena and Wakaba attend classes at a university, unaware that they are about to be pulled back to Ohtori Academy.
1. Convicted, committed, forgotten

"There – in the other world – I am a physics professor at Susera University. I live alone in an apartment and commute by bus Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, when I have early morning classes to teach. Tuesdays and Thursdays I walk, as my presence isn't required before noon. But the weather is getting cooler. I think when winter arrives I'll start taking the bus every day, to avoid walking through the snow." He reiterated for the umpteenth time information she knew already, and waited for her to react as usual, with a refutation of that other world's reality.

"Interesting… so the time in your dream world seems to approximate that of the real world," said his therapist, pen scratching away on her clipboard.

"Not quite," said Mikage. "The dream setting is usually from seven in the morning to whenever I go to sleep; but in this world it's night."

"Is it ever nighttime in your dream world?"

Her voice dripped condescension. If he had cared about anything at all, it might have bothered him, but his range of emotions seldom varied beyond the narrow spectrum of boredom to mild interest. Besides, he had long ago dismissed her as an ignorant and unremarkable human being – a specimen whose opinions were meaningless to him. "It gets to about midnight, then I go to bed. A few times I've stayed up all night. On those occasions, when I woke up again in this world, I couldn't remember the events of the past day. All I could remember was my… dream."

She looked up from her clipboard and frowned at him. "Why do you hesitate to call it a dream?"

Still on the same track they followed every session; she was going to accuse him of confusing dreams with reality. At one point these sessions had seemed the most interesting part of his very mundane days, but lately the routine had become so predictable it bored him. This was also the one part of it that was mildly annoying, because no matter how much she accused him of being in denial and retreating to his dream world to escape the real world, it didn't change the fact that the other world _felt_ just as real as this one. As far as his conscious mind could discern, it _was_ real. He could pretend otherwise – and generally did, in the hopes of avoiding repetitive lectures (and new drugs) from his therapist – but no amount of pretending altered the inescapable fact of that other world's existence. In that place, he wasn't a mental patient. He was a respectable professor named Nemuro.

Here, however, he was a prisoner in an asylum. It had its drawbacks, but it was a better existence than he might have had, considering the reason he had been put here. He had allegedly burned down a building, thereby murdering the hundred youths within. If he had not been deemed insane he'd have gone to prison for life. As it was, his lack of recollection of the event, combined with temporary amnesia about his own identity, had been sufficient to send him to a mental institution instead.

He fixed his cold stare on the woman, whose name he knew though he never bothered to address her by it, and said, "The seamless continuity from one dream to the next, night after night, without break and without variation – does it not strike you as odd? If dreams are the result of rapid random firing of neurons, or stimulus gathered from events in our memory, or reactions to subtle outside stimulus – which in this place would be limited to lights flashing on and people coming to give the meds – how do you explain my case?"

"Very likely, it is an accumulation of your past experiences, from when you taught your seminar. According to my notes—"

"I was never a college professor," said Mikage. "I have also never been to that campus. Did you check to see if it matched my description? The clocktower? The slope, the arts quad, the statue of the founder and the columns directly outside Goldwin Smith Hall—"

"Mikage, please don't interrupt me."

"It was you who interrupted me that time. You're my therapist, it's your job to do the research. Have you looked into it or haven't you?"

"My job is to evaluate your condition and to help you to see past these delusions, not to encourage you in your belief of them. Whether or not the details of your dream world are accurate is irrelevant—"

"You are wrong," he said flatly. "It is the _only _relevant thing you can learn for me—"

"Mikage, what did I say about interrupting?" she warned, fixing a reproachful glare on him and speaking in the tone a teacher might use with a wayward five-year-old.

He frowned, but fell obediently silent. No matter how incompetent she was, she had control over his life; he could not afford to be impatient with her.

"What do we say?" she prodded gently.

"Pardon me for interrupting you," he said in a monotone.

She smiled. "Better. Now… the reason I say that it is irrelevant whether your description of the campus is accurate is because it is very possible you have been there sometime before in your life, and are simply remembering it."

Mikage bit back the retort that automatically surfaced in his mind. _I haven't been there. I _know_ I haven't. _He could not prove that to her, however – especially given his amnesia. He thought quickly for a way around the dilemma._ I have to locate something that's been changed recently, within the past few months. I've got to convince my other self, Nemuro, to do that…_

_Nemuro, look for something new_.

His therapist was watching him carefully for a reaction to her last statement. Mikage's face was studiously blank; but since she evidently wanted a reply, he said, "I see. That makes sense. I hadn't considered that possibility before, but you're probably right."

She smiled, pleased – as he had meant her to be. It was laughably easy to lie to her just by telling her what she wanted to hear; but doing that became as boring as everything else in this whitewashed, sterile environment, and didn't help him to uncover the truth. He had found that the only way to make any progress was to intersperse truth and lies, treading a fine line that occasionally got him prescriptions of more medication.

Today's session lasted another fifteen minutes, during which he played the compliant patient, even going so far as to offer the occasional light-hearted remark poking fun at himself and some of the other patients. He could be charming when he wished to, and by the end of the session he had been entirely forgiven for his earlier interruptions. He left his therapist with the impression that he was improving tremendously.

His impression of her was not quite so flattering. Whatever amusement he had once had in manipulating her opinion of him had long since been replaced by boredom, and he wondered how she had ever managed to become a psychiatrist.

End of the session meant a return to his cell until three o'clock – communal recreation time – during which the more dangerous and unstable patients, who were otherwise confined, were allowed to mingle outside for an hour under close supervision. Mikage would have preferred interactions with the more sane patients; he regarded his companions warily, having been attacked on one occasion by a man he had tried to converse with. But then, he had murdered one hundred people in a fire, or so he was told; perhaps he was as crazy as the rest of this crowd.

He removed himself, as he always did, to the furthest corner of the yard, where he sat under a tree and read a book until the hour was over. Then he went back to his cell and read some more.

White walls, grey floor, isolation, books. The sum of his existence was this unchanging monotony. The asylum sucked out hope and warmth from its occupants. Despair permeated its whitewashed walls and waxed tile floors. Mikage was certain that the better part of his life had not been spent in a mental institution, but he also found the place familiar, like an old jacket or a well-worn pair of sneakers, fitting perfectly.

No, he had not been in an asylum before, but wherever he had been, it had been a similarly cold and sterile place, right down to the despair that engulfed all the patients, stripping them of any sense that what they experienced could be termed, "life." They didn't live, they just existed. Like a stone, or a bench, or…

_Perhaps_, thought Mikage, wondering where the idea had come from, _like a computer_…

_(Meanwhile,  
__Approximately the same time,  
on the campus ofSusera University...)_

Utena sat at her desk, paying little attention to her teacher's droning lecture on the history of greek vases, and instead looking out the window at the gold and red leaves, which seemed to flicker like fire in the wind. She scribbled on her notebook:

"I've lost something. I don't know what it is, but it's something important. Something about the color red reminded me just now … I think it had to do with flowers."

She paused to muse about what she had written. It was not the first time she had spent her History of Greek Art class pondering the sense of profound loss that was like an empty hole gaping inside her. She knew she had not always felt that way. Something had happened, something she could not remember, and there was something important she had lost and had to find. What it was, she had not the slightest idea; but it occupied her thoughts constantly. Another person might have been driven to distraction by the perpetual sense of searching, but Utena was a never-say-die optimist, and believed with complete conviction that before long she would find whatever-it-was.

Bored of writing, she began drawing a picture instead, of a little rodent-monkey with large ears. When she had finished, she noticed that there was something familiar about it. Perhaps she had seen it somewhere? It could have been a cute animal mascot for something. She gave it a tie. There, definitely a mascot.

The tie seemed eerily appropriate.

She sighed, mired in boredom, and leaned her head back so she could look at the ceiling. Why had she let Wakaba talk her into taking this class? There wasn't anything in it to interest her. Wakaba had only chosen to take it because her crush at the time was in it. Now, she had a different boyfriend.

_And here I am, stuck in this place… How many more minutes before class is over? What is it that I'm searching for, I wonder? Will I find it today?_

She tilted her head back further to look at the clock on the wall behind her.

"Tenjou!"

"Yes!" she cried, sitting straight upright.

"Perhaps you could tell us what the style of this vase is?" said the professor, indicating a slide.

"Uh… ah…" She looked blankly at him, and thought ruefully, _This is gonna be a long semester…_

_(Authors Note: This is just the introduction to a much longer story. __The idea came to me after a long session of looking over Mikage-centered fanfics. In particular Chiaroscuro: Of Light and Shadows influenced me. I've also read some lovely analysis of the Black Rose arc. _

_Comments are much appreciated! )_


	2. Dream or reality?

He woke, as he always did, a minute before his alarm clock would go off. There was a brief sense of disorientation. The last thing he could recall was falling asleep in his darkened room – not his own room, but the room of that other version of himself, in the asylum.

Over the next few seconds the dream faded, blurring into the background of his consciousness. He sighed and ran a hand through his pink hair. It was unnerving, having these same dreams every night. Were he not otherwise in perfect possession of his faculties he might have questioned his own sanity, or at least his perceptions; but since with the exception of the dreams his life was normal, he thrust it to the back of his mind. It was Monday, and he had a busy schedule. There was no time to worry about such things.

He went through his morning routine, showering and eating a quick breakfast, before heading out to the bus stop with his lecture materials stowed in his shoulder bag. The morning air was brisk, something he hadn't been prepared for, and he shivered slightly, pulling his collar close to his neck as he waited for the bus to arrive.

"Fall… it's fall in the dream, too," he muttered, then frowned at himself for thinking about the dream. _I shouldn't waste my time on it. Still, I… it feels as if there was something important I should remember. Something I wanted to recall before I fell asleep…_

He was bothered by the nagging feeling, but unable to recollect whatever it was that had concerned him. When the bus arrived, he shrugged the matter aside once and for all, and delved into his lecture notes, reviewing the material in preparation for his morning class. By the time he had arrived at the university, he had completely forgotten the dream.

Despite being dreadfully busy, the day was uneventful. He taught, he attended a faculty meeting, and he accompanied a colleague to a lecture that he had no particular interest in, but had been roped into a few weeks back. This composed the morning and early afternoon of a dry, pointless day out of a dry and purposeless life. It culminated in his equally pointless work – he had been commissioned to work on the development of a perpetual motion machine, something thought to be impossible, but when it had been offered to him the idea of seeking a power that would last for eternity had intrigued him.

Yes, back then he had been eager. It had been just a few weeks after he'd started teaching that the job had been offered. Around that time, he had been haunted by a perpetual sense of loss. It was as if all meaning, all the warmth and human emotion that comprised life and gave it significance had been sucked out of him, leaving a gaping hole. He was like a man without a soul, a clockwork doll searching for purpose. When he was offered the job, he took it immediately. How strange, that it so quickly became a mirror of his life. He was convinced he could solve the problem, that if he could just find the right equation, just calculate its solution, he would be able to grasp eternity. In the same way, he was convinced that if he could only find that thing that had been taken out of him – something intangible yet very real that he had lost – his life would no longer be empty.

It was not surprising that the failure of one showed by its reflection the failure of the other. Gradually, after repeated dead ends in his research, he came to the realization that the project was impossible. Eternity was an illusion, as unattainable as the search of the alchemists of old for the philosopher's stone. What he had thought he recognized as a problem with a solution was a problem with no solution at all; just as in life, what he had thought was something precious that he had lost was in fact not lost at all; he had never had it to begin with.

But, like the project whose funding had not yet run out, he continued to run on the same tracks, cycling through his habitual routine every day, every week, every month, without purpose. Life, such as it was, was empty. Nemuro was indifferent.

That day he worked with his usual diligence, unvarying in his efficiency. At four o'clock he went out to get lunch, and the first ripple of change entered his routine.

He found that he did not desire to go to any of the cafes or dining halls from which he usually picked up his meals. He had the rare and rather extraordinary craving for something new.

_Something new… why does that seem so important, just now?_

He considered leaving the campus for collegetown – the busy city area where restaurants and shops abounded – but he rejected that notion. Collegetown was noisy and crowded. No, he wanted something closer, somewhere on campus. Then he frowned.

_Something new… on campus? Now I remember. Mikage wants me to look for some recent change to the campus. Mikage… wants me to… Now, I really am starting to seem like a mental patient. Hunting down something for my alter ego?_

He shook his head at himself. If that was the subconscious reason for the deviation from his usual habits, he should probably just forget the matter. He knew that these dreams he had were abnormal, but he had decided that as long as they remained just that – dreams, not affecting his daily life – he could ignore them. He did not want to make a habit of acting on whims based on the desires of some mentally unstable persona buried in his unconscious mind.

_Forget Mikage Souji… I'll just go get lunch at the café in Goldwin Smith_.

He turned his feet in the direction of that building, but walked only a few steps before he slowed to a halt, nagged by a lingering sense of discomfort. It was true he should not give in to bizarre fancy, but based on what he had experienced last night and every past night, he knew he would have another dream tonight, in which he, as Mikage, would be disappointed if he did not have some recollection of something new on campus.

_It would only take a few minutes of my time… But should I waste it, for something so trivial?_

It was the principle of the thing, more than the actual waste of time that he disapproved of. Acting on notions that had come to him in dreams was not rational behavior. He would have determined to ignore the idea entirely, were it not for that bothersome fact that he would have to experience Mikage's disappointment eventually. It gnawed at him.

"_Nemuro, look for something new_."

For a few moments more, he debated with himself, weighing the illogic of such an action against the remorse he might suffer in a dream. He decided, finally, that preventing himself from suffering regrets – even if they were only dreamed regrets – was justification enough, at least this once. If it happened again, and he found influence from his dreams seeping into his daily behavior, he would have to do something about it; but for now he could spare the half hour it might take him to carry out this ridiculous search.

He went to the administration building and questioned the clerk at the information desk.

"Excuse me, but can you tell me if there have been any changes to the campus within the past six months? A new building going up? Or a new sculpture, perhaps? You don't say – outside the Johnson Museum? When was it—ah, just last month. That is perfect, thank you."

The clerk gave him a somewhat bewildered smile, but did not ask the reason behind his bizarre question, and Nemuro offered no answers. He left the building and set off for the Johnson Museum of Art.

So, a Japanese teahouse had been constructed out front. He had never noticed. He supposed it was because he had little time for art in his daily life; he had been inside the museum only once, and that was within the first week of his arrival at the university. The Johnson Museum was an architecturally interesting building, radically different from the very traditional brick buildings that covered most of the campus. Nemuro liked it for its clean lines and elegant simplicity. He paused out front, regarding the construction of wood and bamboo out on the lawn in silence.

_That… is a teahouse?_

He was not very familiar with japanese zen traditions. The walls of thin bamboo spiraling out served no purpose that he could discern, as they did not enclose a room – they were just walls, forming a pattern on the grass. At the center of that pattern there _was_ a room, but it had walls of its own. Nemuro stepped around it, still looking for some purpose for the extraneous walls, and for the entrance. It turned out that along one of those unnecessary walls ran a walkway, leading to a raised platform and a low entrance that required one to duck in order to enter.

It was artistic, he supposed, but overall an extremely impractical design, and on the whole Nemuro preferred the straight lines and practical architecture of the museum. He crawled inside, feeling out-of-place, but deciding that he should have a good look at the interior so that his dream self would be able to describe it.

The teahouse was small, made of wood, and unremarkable. Nemuro made a note of the dimensions, sketching out the floor plan in his mind. This done, he left through the opening in the wall that passed for an exit, intending to go at last to find his lunch, but the sound of a vaguely familiar voice stopped him.

"… guess this must be the place, huh?"

He froze_. That voice… where have I heard it before?_

His skin crawled with the icy chill that rushed through his veins. It was unlike anything he experienced in his daily life, and while the analytical part of him immediately tried to pick apart the reason for his emotions, he moved around the teahouse to get a glimpse of the speaker.

Her back was to him, but the long pink hair and the slender figure were unmistakable. His eyes widened in shock. For an instant, recognition flashed through him.

"Tok—" As he spoke, the sound seemed to chase the remembrance away. She turned around, and he saw that she was no one he had ever met; she was just an ordinary young woman – attractive, athletic, with earnest blue eyes.

Or so he thought, until surprise crossed her features, followed quickly by puzzlement, and then rage.

"You!" she cried, balling her fists.

This accusation made so little sense that he momentarily wondered whether she was shouting at someone else, and turned his head to look for said person, but her next words brought his attention back to her.

"You bastard!" she growled, marching up to him.

"Have we met?" he asked coldly.

Instead of answering, she drew back her fist. Before he had even fully registered his surprise, she punched him hard in the jaw. The blow was strong enough to knock him down, sending his rose-colored glasses skittering over the nearby sidewalk. The woman grasped his collar and yanked him forward, her fist connecting for a second time with his face.

"I should beat you to a pulp for what you did!" she snarled. "You heartless jerk! How do _you_ like being hit!"

"Stop it." He raised his hands to ward off further punches. "Let go of me."

"Not until you apologize for hurting Wakaba!"

"Who?"

"You heard me, creep! You keep your hands off her! Otherwise I'll—"

"You have the wrong person. I have no idea who you are or what you are talking about. Now release me, unless you want to visit the Judicial Administrator."

At this threat of being reported to the university authorities, she gave a frown of puzzlement, and her grip on him loosened. "But… I thought…"

"I'm not who you think I am," he snapped, sitting upright and prying her hand off his shirt collar. "My name is Nemuro, I am a physics professor here."

"A-a… professor?" she stammered, suddenly flustered. She blushed and bowed her head. "Excuse me, sir. Uh… how could you be a professor? You look like an undergraduate!"

"Looks can be deceiving." He picked up his glasses and cleaned them off.

The young woman rose and helped him to his feet. "Goodness, I'm sorry, professor… I just… I would've sworn… you look so familiar…"

"Do I?" He frowned, replacing the glasses on his face before he asked, "Who is it, this person I remind you of?"

"Ah… well, you see…" She appeared embarrassed. "My friend Wakaba has this guy she's been seeing. I guess you could say he's her boyfriend. But he's an abusive jerk. He just manipulates her, making her do what he wants all the time. He's really sneaky, and lately he's been trying to turn her against me because I'm her only ally. Yesterday she had a bruise on her cheek, and even though she denied it I know he hit her. I saw you and, ah… Heh, heh, well, it's really funny, because you don't even look like him, actually," she said, scratching the back of her head. "He's tall and has long dark hair, and you're kind of short and thin with light pink hair… almost complete opposites."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you nearsighted? And colorblind?"

"For just a second, I swear I recognized you. I was convinced you had manipulated my best friend into hating me. I don't know why I thought that… I guess that's a lame explanation, huh?" She laughed nervously.

Nemuro did not laugh. He was strangely unsettled by her words, and wanted to escape the discomfort that this bold, achingly familiar woman instilled in him.

"So it was an honest mistake," he said flatly. "I understand, and won't press charges. Good day." He turned and headed back to the arts quad.

"Uh… thanks. Sorry, professor!" she called out.

She tried to say something more, but he moved out of hearing range and retreated into the closest building in order to avoid further contact with her.

That woman… something about that woman… frightened him. He could not explain it. It tugged at the edge of his consciousness, confusing his thoughts, fraying his sanity like the incessant dreams of the asylum did. Only…

The dreams always faded away, but that woman was startlingly real. Whoever she was, he did not want to know her, did not want to remember her…

Remember… What was there to remember? He had thought she was a stranger.

_Mikage… do you know who that pink-haired woman is?_

_(later  
that  
afternoon...)_

"Utena!" Wakaba burst out laughing at her. "That's so terrible! I can't believe you did such a thing."

"Yeah, well… it's not like I meant to make that kind of mistake," said Utena.

Wakaba shook a finger at her and scolded, "Utena, you really should be careful. It's almost a lucky thing you beat up some random professor. What if it had really been Daron you'd attacked? I'd be super-duper mad at you, but besides that, you could have been badly hurt! You may be strong, but guys are bigger. Daron could—"

"I've taken out larger guys before. They tend to underestimate me," said Utena. "Anyway, this guy was short. He was about my height, slim, with purplish glasses and black gloves on. Clearly not an athletic type… which is part of why I feel so bad for beating up on him," she added in a mumble.

"He'll probably have a black eye when he goes to teach tomorrow, and all his students will wonder where he got it from," Wakaba said, giggling. She stopped, and her eyes widened. "Wait a minute – you said he's got purple glasses, right? Does he have pink hair? And is he young? And handsome?"

"Er… Yeah, I guess so. Why?" asked Utena.

"U-ten-a! Clueless as usual! The guy you knocked down is Professor Nemuro! He is the dreamiest professor on campus!" cried Wakaba, adopting that look of reverence that came into her eyes whenever she spoke of people at the upper tiers of the social ladder. Celebrities, her boyfriend, and the most popular students on campus could bring about that starry gaze. "He's a boy genius who came here when he was only eighteen, and he's already respected by all his colleagues as a brilliant scientist! If he didn't teach physics, I'd have taken his class just so I could meet him. Utena, you are so lucky! But then you not only met him, you beat him up! Only you would do something like that!"

Utena smiled and scratched her head sheepishly. "Look, it was an honest mistake. He seemed sort of cold and unfriendly, actually—"

"I would be too, to someone who'd just punched me in the face for no reason!" exclaimed Wakaba.

"Right, right, point taken… Still, he did let me go without demanding a better explanation or getting me into any trouble, which I guess was pretty nice of him."

"I'll say!" Wakaba glared at her.

"Ummm… Yeah, I guess I really botched it, didn't I? I don't know where I got that weird idea about him… For a minute, I was sure I recognized him, though. He seemed so familiar…" Utena's eyes unfocused as she murmured to herself, "Something about… roses. Black roses…"

"Utena!" Wakaba's cry jolted her back to reality.

"What?"

"I have the perfect idea to make up for this! You're right, roses or something would be nice. We should get some and bring them to his office and apologize."

"Don't you think that's a little much?"

"No! Of course not. How could you think of just leaving matters like this! You have to do something to make it up to him, after beating him up like that. You can take your best friend, me, with you. Then I can get to meet him, too!" She giggled.

"I guess so…" conceded Utena, seeing that she would get nowhere arguing with Wakaba. Besides, she did owe the professor something, she supposed, though she wondered whether he would really appreciate roses and a visit.

Wakaba was delighted at the prospect of meeting him, and it took some effort on Utena's part to convince her not to set out that instant for his office.

"We should at least find out when his office hours are, so we don't disturb him while he's working," Utena pointed out.

Wakaba pouted, but agreed to the logic of this. They looked his name up on the university homepage and found that he had office hours on Thursdays, so it was agreed they would see him then. Utena, rather reluctantly, promised to bring roses.

The matter agreed upon, she promptly put it out of her mind in favor of other things – classes, fencing team, homework, and the occasional pause to recognize the sense of emptiness inside her and wonder yet again when she would find the elusive thing that she was looking for.

_(Author's note: Just for the record, I don't typically write serious fanfiction. I go well out of my way to avoid it, actually, because I have a hard time writing characters that aren't from my own head. If you notice out-of-character behavior, please inform me, and I will do my best to fix it._

_Whetheryou find the story interesting, surreal, amusing, or just boring, please let me know! All feedback isvery muchappreciated!)_


	3. A beautiful hallucination

Midnight. The sky was black, the stars overpowered and invisible with the presence of the city lights. Nemuro shut the blinds and sat down on the edge of his bed, a slight frown on his lips.

That pink-haired woman… he could not shake the woman from his thoughts. Every time he closed his eyes, she was there, in that brief glimpse of her he had seen just when she was turning around to face him. Sometimes her hair was brown in his recollection – which was unusual, because his memory was never faulty. Details, such as the dimensions of the teahouse, stayed with him like photographs, printed for eternity in his brain.

_The brown-haired woman must be who she reminded me of_, he thought. _That's why I recognized her… I mistook her for someone else. _

Why a brown-haired woman seemed in his mind to bear any resemblance to a pink-haired one, he could not explain. It was a surreal experience to file away with the strange dreams of Mikage.

Those dreams he would have to face in a few minutes; he could feel fatigue creeping up on him, peeling away his consciousness.

_Maybe Mikage will recognize her_, he thought to himself as he slipped under the sheets and lay down. Exhaustion swept over him. It seemed like he was in the asylum before he had even lost consciousness. He was sinking into darkness when he heard, dimly, the slam of a door and a hostile shout: "Wake up you motherf-ckers! Rise and shine!"

_(in  
the  
asylum)_

Mikage was jolted out of his dream by the slam of the door to the room next to his. His own door followed, along with a repeat of the greeting given by the orderly who was collecting them for their morning shower.

He stood up. He despised the man who had awoken them, and regarded the group shower as the most unpleasant portion of the day; but privacy, as he had known for the past two years as a criminal on trial and then as an asylum inmate, was not a luxury afforded to arsonists or the mentally unbalanced. He endured the daily ritual with indifference. That was something he had managed to cultivate very well – indifference, an utter lack of emotional interest in his own existence or anybody else's. But perhaps that, like the isolation and purposelessness and other aspects of this place that resonated with him, was not something he had learned here but rather, was something he had brought with him from someplace else.

It was amusing to note that Nemuro, in entirely more pleasant circumstances, was equally apathetic.

Despite his general indifference, he was looking forward in some measure to his session with his therapist today. Nemuro had discovered the teahouse. Predictably, he'd been reluctant about it – Nemuro never wanted to give credence to this asylum reality and the other self that had murdered a hundred people. The professor had a life in the real world to preserve, after all, even if that life was just like that of a clockwork machine, wound each day to the same unchanging schedule. It was no surprise that he dismissed the dreams, rather than attempting to understand them. Mikage, on the other hand, trapped in the darker side of his reflected world and stagnating with the monotony of his existence, had nothing better to do than seek out the truth. It at least brought a flicker of interest to his life.

So now he had the teahouse. If his therapist would cooperate in looking up the information for him, he would learn for certain which of him was real, or if perhaps both were. He also had Nemuro's strange meeting with the familiar pink-haired girl to ponder. Nemuro had wondered if Mikage knew her.

Unlike the professor, Mikage was relatively considerate of his dream self's rare questionings, so he answered. _No_, he thought, _I don't recognize her. I've never met her before._ Then, as an afterthought, he added, _The woman with brown hair… her name might be Tokiko._

After the shower and breakfast he returned to his cell, where he sank down with a scientific journal in his hands. He requested them so that he could search for articles written by his counterpart (he had found none so far), but the material was interesting, in a dry sort of way. He leafed through it to pass the time until therapy.

"You seem cheerful today, sempai."

At the sound of the soft, gentle voice, Mikage lowered the journal and looked up. Mamiya, clad as usual in his magenta uniform, smiled at him from a stool he had pulled up to the edge of the bed.

"I found a teahouse. I think I can finally learn which world is the real one."

"Perhaps they both are," suggested Mamiya.

"I doubt it." Mikage's eyes narrowed at him. "… it's likely the other world is, like my therapist says, an illusion. Like you. I suppose it wouldn't be surprising. Maybe I really am crazy."

"Until a dreamer awakens, the dream is the reality," said Mamiya. "What your therapist sees and what you see may be different, but only your perceptions are real."

"I don't define reality that way," said Mikage.

"What is real then, sempai? Is that journal you're reading real? Would it cease to be real if your therapist said so?"

"She's a fool. Her opinions are meaningless."

"I'm glad you found the teahouse," said the boy.

Mikage leaned forward, giving Mamiya an odd, measuring look, before handing him the journal. "Take this."

Mamiya took it and opened it to the article Mikage had been reading. "… a new species of frog? It has interesting orange spots on it."

"Turn to page seventy-two and read the first three lines to me."

The boy did so obediently.

When he had finished, Mikage took the journal from him and skimmed the lines himself. Mamiya had read them correctly. He frowned and closed the pages, shutting his eyes and sinking back into his pillow. "… it doesn't make sense," he said absently. "No one can see or hear you except me. You are a hallucination. But… you read those lines correctly, and I hadn't seen them yet. How could that be possible? It doesn't make sense."

"Do you expect to be able to rationalize all things in life?" asked Mamiya. "There are many phenomena without logical explanation. Dreams are one. Love is another."

At the feel of warm pressure on his chest, Mikage opened his eyes. Mamiya leaned over him, hands sliding across the fabric of his shirt, up to his shoulders. The boy lowered himself to the bed and snuggled against him.

"Mamiya…" Mikage wrapped his arms around him. The texture of Mamiya's magenta uniform, the warmth of his body, the sound of his gentle breathing, and the faint scent of roses overwhelmed his senses. He curled a lock of pale lavender hair in his fingers. "Which of us is real? Why don't you ever appear in my dreams?"

"You don't want me to appear in them, sempai."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'd like nothing better. For one thing, it would convince Nemuro to take this matter seriously, and that would be useful."

"You would be upset if I were there."

"I? You mean he would." He tilted the boy's chin up and gazed into his green eyes.

"You are both the same," said Mamiya gravely.

"You think so? That I am the same as that dry, soulless machine endlessly ticking away on an unsolvable problem?" Mikage shook his head. "I recognize the futility of life in this prison, but he makes his life a prison by its futility. It is a subtle but important distinction."

"Even so, you won't want to see me in the dream," said Mamiya.

"Why shouldn't I? There is never a time I don't want you with me." He pulled the boy into his embrace and inhaled deeply the rose scent of his hair.

"Nemuro will be upset with you, sempai," said Mamiya, his tone reproachful; but his smile was inviting.

"Let him. I'm a figment of his imagination or vice versa. Either way it's irrelevant." Mikage's slender fingers brushed through the boy's hair, stroked the outline of the youthful face, and lightly touched his lips. Mamiya's beauty shone back at him – pure and devoted beauty, worth seizing eternity for.

_It's very clear that he's an illusion. Nothing so vibrant could exist in this asylum_, Mikage thought, bending his head to kiss the lips whose warmth and taste proved how delusional he was.

_(Balch Hall  
a dormitory on the  
university campus)_

She had restless dreams that night, about a black rose, and something in vibrant red – _someone_ – she could not remember. Nemuro appeared briefly, but he was smirking maliciously. In the dream he was her enemy.

Utena woke feeling tired and grumpy. She also discovered she had overslept, and a frantic sprint for class didn't save her from creeping in late. At least today she had fencing practice to look forward to. After slogging through calculus, she went out to get lunch. She was crossing the arts quad when she glimpsed a familiar figure with short pink hair.

_The professor! Now's my chance to apologize for yesterday_. She jogged over to him. "Hello! Professor! It's me."

He stopped his quick stride along the walkway and turned to wait for her, albeit with obvious reluctance. "Can I help you with something, Miss?" he asked coldly.

"No, I just wanted to apologize. I'm really sorry I hit you. Did I do any serious damage?" She peered at his face, and winced a little at the puffy black circle behind his tinted glasses.

"Nothing that won't mend in a few days," he said brusquely, resuming his walk.

"Um… Listen, I can understand why you're mad at me," she said, following alongside him. "I feel really bad about it, so… is there anything I could do to make it up to you?"

He glanced at her. "I suppose you could help me move some new equipment into my laboratory."

"Sure! Okay. Right now?"

"Unless you're busy."

"Well, I was about to get lunch—"

"Never mind it, then."

"No – wait! Hey, I didn't say I wouldn't. I'll get lunch afterwards." Utena hurried after him, thinking to herself that this professor was really rude, but then again… she had hit him yesterday. She supposed that gave him some justification for his behavior towards her.

She trailed him across campus to the basement of a building she had never entered before. Inside, he used his ID card to unlock a door, which he opened to what appeared to be a supply room. He pointed to a small stack of boxes.

"These need to come to my laboratory."

"Okay, no problem." Utena flexed her bicep and smiled at him, but only received a cold stare in response. She picked up two of the boxes and said, "Just show me the way."

He lifted a third and set off down the hallway.

Utena followed, bothered less by his rudeness than by the persistent feeling of familiarity. Somehow, she knew him. Some part of her suspected that beneath that impassive mask of his was another face, smirking at her; that behind those cold, calculating eyes was an intellect both incredibly sharp and incredibly warped, capable of infinite maliciousness.

_That's ridiculous. I'd never even met him until yesterday! It must be that stupid dream I had._

In two trips, they managed to get everything to his laboratory. Utena lingered, looking around the room as if it might give her some clue to the identity of this man who pretended not to know her, yet who she felt certain she had met before.

"Thank you for your assistance," said the professor.

"Sure, it was no problem. Wow, what is all this stuff?" She peered into one of the boxes at magnets, metal parts, and some special type of glass.

"It's for the current project I'm working on."

"What project is that?"

"I've been commissioned to design a perpetual motion machine."

"Is that possible?" Utena's knowledge of science was limited, but she recalled having heard theories about perpetual motion in high school. She examined the mathematical equations he had written across his chalkboard, unable to make sense of them.

"Most people don't think so," Nemuro answered her, "but the idea intrigued me, so I accepted the project. The work has been nothing but a series of repetitive failures, however. To be quite honest, I've lately come to be convinced that it is impossible; but I am paid to work on it, so that is what I do."

Utena's eyebrows knit. "Professor… don't you think that's a little dishonest, working on a project that you know can't succeed?"

"Perhaps, but I could be wrong about it. I invest the requisite number of hours, because there are people who believe in the possibility and want me to seek it for them. As long as I do my job, what I think of the project is unimportant."

Utena sat down on the edge of a table and looked thoughtfully at the boxes as he began to unpack them. "What's the point in working on a project you have no interest in?"

"I didn't say I find it uninteresting. On the contrary, the concept intrigues me. I simply said I think it's impossible."

"But that amounts to the same thing. What's the point in doing work you believe is futile? You'll never succeed if you don't have any faith in it to begin with."

Her barrage of questions seemed to annoy him. He stopped unpacking momentarily to look at her, perhaps wondering why she had not left yet. Utena waited. She wanted to hear his reply; if he had no good reason then he should not be doing the work – that was a simple truth.

The professor went back to unpacking. "At one point, I believed in this work. I've passed that point, but the work remains."

"I see…" Utena mulled that over. She was silent for several minutes, looking at the scribblings on the chalkboard.

Gradually, she became aware of a profound stillness that had settled over the room. Nemuro had stopped unpacking. She glanced his way to find him staring fixedly at her, his expression so intense that she was reminded instantly of her dream, and her feelings of mistrust came flooding back.

The professor swiftly averted his gaze.

But it was too late; she saw that he had recognized her, despite his efforts now to pretend otherwise.

"Professor?"

"What is it?"

"Have we met before?"

"I don't think so."

"Oh." She scratched her head and stared at him. _He's lying. I know he felt something, just like I did. He's the same as Wakaba._

But whereas Wakaba had immediately acknowledged their mutual feeling of recognition, the professor flatly denied it.

After a few minutes, Utena pressured him: "The reason I ask is that… This is going to sound bizarre, but I'm looking for something." He did not reply or otherwise acknowledge her words, so she continued, "I'm not sure what it is. It's something important. It's like… I can't really describe it. It's something really precious to me. I don't have any idea where to find it, but I get these flashes of recollection. A kind of déjà vu, like I felt around you when I attacked you yesterday, which is why I brought it up. You're the only person, except Wakaba, who I've felt that around. Weird, huh?"

From the slight lifting of his head and the silent stare he gave the wall, as if he were lost in deep contemplation, she judged her words had made an impression on him. When he spoke, however, she was disappointed:

"These 'flashes of recollection' led you to mistake me for your friend's tall, dark-haired boyfriend, in broad daylight, at a distance of five feet? Either you're off your medication, or you've concocted the most elaborate ruse I've ever heard of to get close to me."

"What?" Her expression darkened. "Why would I do that? Don't flatter yourself! I don't take medication, and I'm perfectly sane. I just think you look a little familiar, that's all. I thought maybe you could help me."

He looked at her then, his eyes unreadable behind the gleam of his tinted glasses.

"Are you going to be honest with me?" asked Utena. "Or do you really think I'm crazy? I guess I might be, but… I get the feeling we might have that much in common."

From the slight downturn of his lips, she knew she had guessed correctly. The professor definitely _had_ recognized her, and had simply chosen to conceal it.

Eventually, he pulled out a chair and sat down to face her. "… I never caught your name."

"Eh?" Realizing that she had never told him, she laughed sheepishly and bowed her head. "Utena Tenjou. Sorry about that!"

"The name sounds familiar, but I can't recall where I've heard it." He intertwined his gloved fingers and fixed his shrewd gaze on her, seeming to debate with himself about how much to tell her. "… You described something precious you're searching for. I used to feel something similar. I suppose you could liken it to this perpetual motion project. At the time I believed I had once possessed something vital, something indescribably important, only I had somehow lost it and was desperate to retrieve it. Later, I came to realize that the thing I thought I had lost was something I had never had to begin with. It was illusory – like the goal of this project. The project goes on, empty, without meaning – not because the meaning is lost, but because it never had any to begin with."

Utena frowned at this melancholy parallel to her own situation. "But surely… someone thinks it has meaning, to fund it."

"What other people think has no bearing on my own perception of the matter."

"But… if you don't believe in it, then of course you won't find it. You have to believe that you will! You have to want to."

He gave her an odd look. "In any case, I can't help you in this search of yours; however I am curious to know why we both think there is something familiar about each other. The person you remind me of has brown hair and is several years older than you. I doubt you've ever met her."

"That could describe a lot of people."

"I know. As I said, I don't think you've met her. Where is it you think you've seen me before?"

"I'm… not sure," she confessed, peering thoughtfully into his face. "I think…" Her eyes narrowed. "Take off your glasses for a minute."

He complied, removing them and setting them on the counter.

Her mouth dropped open. "Mik…" She strained to grasp the rest of the thought, but it was gone before she finished the word.

"What?"

"I don't know… a name, I think. You remind me of someone named Miki – no, that's not right. Mik… ah…"

"Mikage," Nemuro supplied.

"Yes!" Utena snapped her fingers. "Mikage, that's right! How did you know, professor?"

"Miss Tenjou, this Mikage, where have you met him? What can you recall about him?"

"Nothing, except the name seems right and he looks like you," said Utena, somewhat disturbed at the sudden intensity in the professor's scrutinizing gaze. He reminded her now, more than ever, of the manipulative presence in her dream.

"But you remember him. Where have you met him? Have you ever been in a mental institution?"

"What?" She was indignant. "Okay, granted my questions are a little weird, but now you're accusing me of being insane? Look, the answer is no, I'm perfectly healthy and I've never been in a mental hospital!"

"That's not what I meant," said Nemuro. "Mikage Souji is in an asylum. He burned down a school building, killing the hundred students inside. Perhaps you visited him, or attended class with him?"

Utena's eyes widened. "Killed a hundred students?" she echoed. "I think I would remember something like that! No, I've never been in an asylum, and I'm positive I don't know anything about a fire killing that many people."

"I see. Perhaps we're thinking of two different people," said Nemuro, with a slight frown.

"I guess we must be…" Utena's frown mirrored his. _The name is right, but I'd remember something as major as a fire like that. Anyway, why is the professor so interested in a guy who murdered a hundred people? __… I don't think I want to know about it._

"In that case, I think there's very little we can do to help each other. I can remember nothing about you except… Tokiko," he said, abruptly. "I believe that was the name of the woman you remind me of."

Utena shook her head. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"I see. Then we cannot help each other. I think we can safely assume that it's simple coincidence that we each resemble someone whom the other has met someplace. Miss Tenjou, thank you for carrying these boxes over."

"You're welcome." Recognizing that as a dismissal, she moved to the door. She paused as she was leaving, and glanced back at him. "Professor, I hope you find the solution to that perpetual motion device."

"Thank you."

His voice was an emotionless monotone. He had no faith in the project at all, and her words of encouragement were hollow to him. She closed the door softly, a gentle feeling of pity welling up in her. There was something tragic, and pathetically hopeless, in the brilliance of that young man wasted on work without meaning. He was like a computer ticking away at a problem someone had entered and forgotten about.

_I am not like that. I am going to find what I lost._

She gave the door one more long look before she turned away, leaving the computer to follow his programmed routines, silently, efficiently, and purposelessly.

_**(Author's note: Thank you, Utena Himemiya, Hofftailing, and Saionji's Rose Bride, for the reviews and encouragement! Thanks also for the recommendations. I will definitely have a look at those fics. **_

_**It's been a few years since I've seen anything from Utena except the Black Rose arc; I'll have to have my sister bring me the rest of the series when she comes to visit, so that I can review it.**_

_**This story has a slow beginning, but I promise it picks up the pace within the next two chapters. To anyone reading it, thank you, I hope you find it interesting, and if you leave me a review you will manage to attain something eternal - my gratitude. Har har. In all seriousness, though, reviews are very encouraging, so thank you for them. Ciao!)**_


	4. Shreds of insanity

The day had progressed with minor variations from the norm, but these were variations Nemuro did not approve of, ripples in an otherwise stable system. There was Utena Tenjou, Tokiko, and the reminder – almost painful – of what he had sought and failed to find, as he saw reflected in the mirror of himself that was her.

Pink hair, blue jacket, slender build; it was eerie how much she resembled him, right down to their heights, which were identical. More specifically, she resembled Mikage, the genius student who had conducted the seminar before he had been institutionalized. Nemuro suspected that Mikage had known her, that they had probably gone to school together, but since both of them denied recollection of that he could not verify it.

_Why am I spending so much time worrying about this?_ _I am giving too much credence to my dreams. Utena's resemblance to Tokiko, a woman who I can't even remember, is merely coincidental. As for Mikage – he is nothing more than a figment of my imagination._

Yet, as much as he would have liked to simply dismiss that figment and ignore him, Mikage had bothered him more last night than any of today's events had. Nemuro cared little about what behavior two consenting adults chose to engage in, but his alter ego's fond adoration of a boy so many years younger disturbed him. In some fashion, after all, Mikage _was_ him – except that Nemuro would never have loved Mamiya that way. It wasn't just the age difference; there was something else, too… Mamiya ought to have been like a younger brother, not a lover.

_He is only a child!_ he thought disapprovingly.

It was worse because he could remember the details of it so vividly. He could feel the boy's hands on his body, the softness and warmth of his dark skin. The memories were arousing, sensual, and… pleasant. Disturbingly so.

When Nemuro sank into bed that night, he broke his usual habit of dismissing his dreams and addressed his other self directly.

"If you are me," he said, aloud, so he could hear the voice that was the same in both realities, "you will not do that again. Mamiya is a child. At least let him grow up, first."

He fell asleep doubting very much that Mikage would listen to him. His last thought, as he drifted off, could have belonged to either of them. Or perhaps it came from both:

… _but we are the same._

_(in  
the  
asylum)_

_It must be the new medication_, he thought, grasping his head and leaning over the table. He had not had a migraine this bad in…

… who could remember, anyway? It hurt. The noise around him was amplified many times over, and his skin crawled with painful sensitivity to anything he touched. Worse was the sensation that he was losing himself. It was as if Mikage were being swept away, dragged and ripped and broken apart by wave after wave of emotions that belonged to someone else. Certainly they were not his. He was not this despairing, lonely, anguished, pathetic person whose sensations intruded on his being. He was cold, rational, in control. He was…

Laughter drifted to him from one of the tables. "… in denial, isn't he?"

"He always is. That's why he's in an asylum."

"Does he remember trying to kill himself?"

_I never tried to kill myself_, he thought automatically, before it occurred to him that the conversation probably wasn't about him. That logical realization was washed away by his paranoid, increasingly unfamiliar mind within a few moments. No, they had certainly been discussing him. He could hear it in their mocking voices. Now they were laughing. It struck him to the core. The sound was shrill, painful, slamming in his head like a hammer. He pushed his untouched breakfast tray aside and rested his head on the table.

_Stop_, he thought. _Please stop… Please stop all the noise._

It did not stop, and neither did the increasingly powerful and incomprehensible desire to cry. He fought it because it was foreign, because he felt it didn't come from himself but from somewhere else. With it came such a sense of helpless desperation that he wanted to flee, to curl in a corner and hide and pray for the world to vanish.

_The drugs. The drugs are messing with my mind. I've got to get out of here. I'm going insane._

_You already are insane_, answered a voice within him. Or was it from outside of him? It was hard to tell, what with his pounding headache and the cacophony of background noises.

_No, it's the drugs. The drugs, the drugs are tearing my mind apart and making me weak._

_That's incorrect. They're tearing your defenses away and showing you what you really are. Weak. Unhappy. Lonely, and too afraid of trusting anyone to reach out and ask for help. This whole indifference act is a shell designed to protect you, because the truth is your life is empty_… He squirmed under the calm, relentless accusation of that familiar-unfamiliar inside-outside voice whispering in his mind. _… you're filled with nothing and too paralyzed by your own emotional ineptness to do anything about it. This desperate, weepy soul pleading for help? That's who you really are, but you shield yourself with indifference to keep yourself blind to your own suffering; it's your coping mechanism for the world you're afraid to face. Laughably pathetic, really. Can you hear them laughing at you?_

"No! That's not me, that's Nemuro!" He covered his ears to drown out the deafening babble of voices in the room, and squeezed his eyes shut so that he did not have to see the faces of people staring at him. "He's the one who can't touch people! He wears those gloves and glasses to put another layer of distance between himself and the world, and keeps running around in that pointless circle, that same ridiculous problem that he doesn't understand is the symbol for his life… He's the one who's pathetic! He's free, all he has to do is step out of that routine. _I'm_ trapped in an asylum! There's nothing I can do!"

"Souji!"

The tap of a hand on his shoulder startled him out of the chaos of his mind. He turned around, and found himself facing a nurse.

"Calm down, all right?" she said.

"Nurse Beckam, is that right? You're the one who gets flustered and quiet whenever you talk to Dr. Sanders." He smirked humorlessly. "Maybe you should try this new medication I'm on. It seems to have a strong effect on inhibitions, and you're so painfully shy."

Her eyes widened. It was just another one of those observations he had made while having nothing to do in this place – minor daily interactions revealed a wealth of information about people, including Beckam's hidden crush on Sanders and Sanders' obliviousness to her.

"It's quite obvious, you know," he went on. It was strange balm to the hurt inside him to inflict discomfort on this patronizing nurse, until some part of him recognized how strained and uncharacteristic his behavior was, and he asked irritably, "What the hell did they put me on, anyway?"

"If you want people to answer your questions," she said stiffly, "you should learn to be polite."

"I knew it," he grumbled as she left. "The purpose of the unnamed medication is to keep me crazy, that's why they won't tell me what it is…"

_The medication isn't necessary for that. You've been crazy all along. If you listen very closely, you can hear them. Listen… the sounds of the laughter and celebration of the hundred youths you killed. They are enjoying your madness. Perhaps this is their revenge. What sort of person would burn down a building and kill a hundred people?_

_I am not going to listen to voices in my head_, he thought, frowning and swaying slightly with the sudden dizziness he felt. _I refuse to cooperate in furthering my own insanity_… Yet, he did listen, perhaps out of morbid curiosity or perhaps precisely because he had declared he wouldn't. The babble of the cafeteria died to a murmur, and he strained to hear beyond it.

_If you listen really closely you might hear the answer to that question, to what sort of person would murder one hundred youths in a fire. It's so faint it's like trying to hear your own heartbeat. Be still, and listen, and you can hear it._

_… can you hear yourself crying?_

The voice had had him fooled up until that point; he'd actually been straining quite hard, past the voices of the hundred murdered youths (Yes, he heard them, and yes, they were laughing), but now it was just trying to make him hate himself. And damn it, it was working.

"I am not going to listen to you anymore," he murmured.

But now that he had heard it, the sound of weeping wouldn't stop. It grew louder, maddeningly so. He dropped his face in his hands and felt moisture, leaking down his cheeks and through his fingers.

Then the nurse's voice called him from far away. "Souji? Souji, are you crying? I think you'd better go back to your room. Come along."


	5. A ride with the prince of darkness

_**(Author's note: Thank you Celeste for the review! I am very glad you're enjoying the story. Here is the next chapter, in which the prince of darkness comes along to nudge the plot forward.**_

_**To anyone who has patiently stuck with it this far - I promise, it's going somewhere. Really. Comments and criticism are very much appreciated! Thanks, and I hope you enjoy this chapter)**_

That night was the worst he had experienced in a long time.

Nemuro woke from it violently. Mikage had been suffering wild emotional mood swings the like of which neither he nor Nemuro had ever experienced before. During his therapy session, the psychiatrist had informed him that she had looked into the teahouse and had confirmed its existence; however, she had insisted that he had heard about it from someone at the asylum. This was ludicrous of course, and Mikage's resultant frustration was understandable, but under the influence of his new medication he had wildly overreacted.

He had begun shouting at her, and by that time his knowledge of her personal life was sufficient for him to make very cutting remarks about her history and her character.

Needless to say, he was dragged forcefully from his tearful therapist's office. The entire situation was worsened when he began hearing voices again – cheerful, mocking voices of a hundred dead boys who were celebrating his madness. Then he had actually felt the heat from the burning building, and it was as if his skin was on fire. He had fought his captors, screaming, thrashing… eventually he was sedated, and just as the darkness from the injection crept over him, Nemuro's eyes flashed open. He could still feel the needle in his arm.

He rubbed his bare flesh, frowning, until the prickle faded away. In a few moments, the dream would be behind him, and he could thrust it out of his memory. That was how it always was.

… but not today. Today, the dream – specifically, one part of it – stuck with him, as vivid as if he had experienced it himself. He went into the bathroom and washed his face, hoping the splash of cold water would pull his mind wholly into reality, but it did not work. He still remembered. Disgusted, he dressed and decided to go to campus early. It was five o'clock in the morning, still dark out, and cold. He was tired and hungry. That did not matter, however. He could ignore his hunger, but he had to get out – out, and away from this apartment where he dreamed Mikage's life.

Once outside, with a scarf around his neck and the chill air freezing him to his bones, he felt some of his discomfort ease.

It wasn't the madness, or the overwhelming tide of emotions, or Mikage's accusing ranting about him that bothered him most. Those things, while unusual and perhaps annoying, he could and did shrug aside. What disturbed him was his memory of what Mikage had done with a willing and encouraging boy…

It was wrong, wrong, wrong… Nemuro knew them both intimately, and he knew it was wrong. Mamiya should not have cared for him like that. Mikage should have been his guardian, a guide and a teacher. Mamiya was only a child, and something about his behavior was… inaccurate, somehow. There was another face, overlapping the dark one, and this face belonged to a boy who was sickly and gentle and dear to him. That boy would not have done the things the dream Mamiya had. He was too inexperienced, young and innocent.

_But we are the same._

He was not sure where that thought came from, but he replied immediately, "We are not the same. I would not have done that."

_You killed one hundred duelists in the fire at Ohtori Academy_.

"I did not do that!"

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window of a storefront he was passing by. Halting, he turned to face it, eyebrows knitting slightly as he wondered whether some of Mikage's delusions weren't seeping into his mind. Nemuro was wearing his coat and black scarf, his tinted glasses and his gloves, but the person in the reflection wore a blue jacket and white pants, and stared back at him through bright eyes without colored glass in front of them.

"You… are not me," he informed the reflection coldly.

Its lips moved to match his own, but the answer he read was different: "You are me."

Nemuro frowned. He was about to walk closer to the reflection to test the physics of it by removing his glasses and holding them directly up to it (there had to be some reflection of them, surely), when blinding white light behind him burst onto the glass and blotted out his reflection. He squinted, turning around.

The deep rumble of a car engine, like the purr of some enormous cat, reverberated down the silent street. A vibrant red convertible pulled up alongside the curb, driven by a tall, dark-skinned man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Mamiya, except that he was older and his hair was white, not lavender.

"Professor Nemuro! It has been awhile since we last met. Can I give you a lift to the university?"

The man's deep voice, like Utena's, resonated in his mind with the power of forgotten memories. Nemuro wondered briefly how this stranger knew him, then it occurred to him that quite possibly, the man had seen him at some lecture during which he had not bothered to note all the names and faces of those present. As the man leaned over to open the passenger side door of his convertible, Nemuro debated whether to get in.

There was something about the man that he did not trust; but the alternative to accepting the company was walking alone with the disturbing memory of his dream. A cold wind blew, seeming to penetrate straight through his clothes and giving him another reason to appreciate a ride to the campus. Even if it was in a convertible, it would be a short trip; he could retreat to his laboratory that much sooner and delve into work.

"Thank you," he said, getting into the passenger seat.

The man smiled at him as if they were old friends. It sent a shiver of dislike through Nemuro, but he dismissed the feeling since the man acted with perfect civility. He strapped himself in, and as the convertible pulled out into the road, he endured the cold air rushing against him without complaint.

His driver spoke in a smooth baritone: "You should pay more attention to those little nagging things called 'feelings,' Nemuro. There are times when they'll get you much closer to the truth than logic can."

Nemuro turned his head to stare at his companion.

The man chuckled. "A computer is ridiculously easy to read, isn't it? It calculates by the logic it was programmed to use, without ever changing its method or its efficiency."

"Who are you?" he asked coldly.

"Akio Ohtori, the Chairman of Ohtori Academy. Ring a bell?"

"No."

This seemed to amuse his driver, whose smiled broadened. "No matter. But tell me, what were you doing out so early? Is it your usual habit to wander the streets before dawn?"

"I had a difficult time sleeping."

"Bad dreams?"

Nemuro said nothing. He was thinking, scanning his memory and analyzing the deep sense of unease that with a few words, this man had instilled in him; he was trying to decipher who Akio Ohtori was.

Akio's smile was like that of a cat at a canary. "I understand. The worst dreams are the ones that seem vividly real, in which you do something you'd never approve of in reality…"

Nemuro stiffened, lips pressed tightly together. Akio's voice lowered, soft and intimate and suggestive.

"… something dark and shameful, so shameful that when you wake it clings to you. It's like a stain you can't wipe off your thoughts. Wouldn't you agree?"

_Obviously he knows about Mikage. He seems to know everything I think. It doesn't make sense, unless perhaps… Could he be as fictional as Mamiya? That would explain his knowledge of my dreams._

Nemuro did not relish the notion; it meant he was as mentally unstable as his institutionalized counterpart. He decided to remain silent, and give no further acknowledgment to his enigmatic companion. He would simply depart at the university.

He should have predicted it sooner, of course. Akio did not bring him to the university. When he noticed that they had taken a turn off course and were heading in the opposite direction, he demanded, "Where are you going? The university is back that way."

"You have hours before your morning class. We're taking a scenic detour. There's someplace you should visit."

"I have no interest in scenic detours. Take me to the university, now!"

At the sharp note of command in his voice, Akio chuckled. "Oh, you'll like this detour," he said simply.

"I think not." Nemuro reached into his coat pocket for his cell phone.

It was not there.

He frowned, his precise memory drifting back, sorting the events of last night. He always kept it in his coat. The battery was running low, so he had plugged it into the charger…

… and this morning he had left in such a hurry that he had forgotten it.

"You can use mine, if you want," offered Akio, producing from his pocket a sleek black cell phone that he held in Nemuro's direction.

The professor knew better than to bother. He turned his face blankly ahead and waited, having no choice but to remain until Akio stopped the car. The cell phone disappeared back into its owner's pocket, and no more words were exchanged until the car slowed, turning off the highway and onto a smaller country road.

Dawn had come, lighting up the eastern sky pale grey and pink. As the car climbed a small hill, Nemuro noted that the environment seemed vaguely familiar, though he had not been to this place before. The car pulled to a halt halfway up the gentle slope. Stretching out before them was a graveyard, lonely and beautiful in the morning light.

Akio stepped out of the car. "We're here, Nemuro."

In part out of curiosity, in part because he knew he would never get back to the university until he complied with his driver's whims, the professor got out and followed Akio over the grass. They had only gone a few steps when Akio put out a hand to stop him.

"Wait."

"Why?"

The Chairman pointed. "Someone has gotten here before us."

Nemuro was significantly shorter than Akio, and could not make out clearly whatever shape had caught his attention at the top of the hill. He climbed a few steps up the slope before he stopped, arrested by the sight of the woman who stood at the crest, flowers in her hands.

Her back was to him, concealing her face; but he knew her anyway. He would have known her in a crowd of a thousand. All his thought processes ground to a halt, uniformly blinded by the flash of remembrance this woman brought. It burned brightly inside him, and simultaneously chilled him to the core.

"Toki… ko…"

He backed up quickly, his eyes wide and his face haunted. He came up short against Akio, who had moved up behind him. The Chariman's large hands closed on his shoulders, his warm breath brushing the top of Nemuro's head.

Under any other circumstances the discomfort he experienced at this intimate proximity to the Chairman would have been profound, but he was wholly absorbed by the presence of that woman. All sorts of emotions he had never known he possessed were stirring in him, and most painful of all, guilt. Longing, adoration, jealousy, hurt, remorse, sympathy, desire, shame… and piercing deep into his soul, that horrible guilt, the irrefutable knowledge that he had done something unconscionable.

It felt like an eternity, but in fact it took only a few seconds for his swimming senses to recover. He moved for the car.

"I'm leaving."

Akio's firm grip on his shoulders held him back. The Chairman released one hand to wave as he called, "Tokiko! Over here!"

Nemuro tensed. He peered up the hill as the woman turned slowly to face them. He was not sure what he expected to see in her eyes, but he was certain that when she came near to them, she would slap him. It was an instinctual knowledge, and with it, worse than the slap itself, the understanding that he deserved it.

She waved and descended.

Nemuro schooled his features into their usual impassive mask.

Tokiko's eyes widened with surprise when she drew near and recognized him, but no slap came. "Chairman," she said politely to Akio, shaking his hand. Then she turned to him. "Professor Nemuro," she said simply.

He gave a nod. "Tokiko."

"It's been a long time."

"How long?" He was genuinely curious about the answer. Up close, he could see lines of age around her mouth and eyes. _She should be younger_.

"Years," she answered him, which was hardly helpful. After a moment, she added, "Come to pay your respects, at last?"

"To who?"

The look of puzzlement she gave him was accompanied by a full minute of silence before she said, "My brother. Mamiya."

"Your…" To his credit, very little of his surprise registered on his face. It was a moment before he responded, however. "Mamiya. When did he die?"

"Shortly before you set fire to that building."

He blinked. "I see… how many years ago was that?"

"Many, many long years ago," Akio answered for her. "Now, let us pay our respects."

Nemuro hesitated, his gaze lingering on the face of the woman who knew him, and knew Mamiya. A dozen questions were on his lips, but he did not give utterance to them; the deep sense of shame silenced him. He suspected she despised him, and worse, that she had good reason to. It kept him from speaking as she turned away and walked down the hill.

Akio's arm around his shoulders steered him up the slope. Nemuro strode ahead, pulling away from the Chairman's touch. Akio exuded an overpowering sensuality that he found invasive and rather disconcerting. He climbed the slope to the grave Tokiko had laid her flowers on.

Roses. Roses of assorted colors. The scent overwhelmed him with memories.

He stood silently, lost deep in reverie as he tried to piece together the fragments of things forgotten, to try to make some sense out of events. Akio stood near and uttered a prayer for the dead. Afterwards, they descended the hill in silence. Without speaking, they got into the car, and Akio headed back towards the university.

It was only as Nemuro was getting out that Akio spoke to him again.

"It is a difficult thing, to be divided into two realities. I can free you from your dreams."

Nemuro paused. He turned back to regard the Chairman.

Akio smiled and held out an envelope to him. "My contact information. I am looking for my sister. She's lost, and I'd like to bring her home. You'll know her if you see her, I'm sure. She has purple hair. The scent of roses follows her. Contact me if you find her, and I will put an end to your dreams."

Nemuro looked at him silently for a moment, not reaching for the envelope. Finally, he turned his back and said, "Find her yourself. I will have nothing to do with you."

Akio's chuckle followed him as he walked away. "Is that so?" The Chairman's low voice stuck in his consciousness, an ominous warning. "We shall see…"

_(later  
that  
day)_

Utena chewed on the end of her pencil and stared off into space. The page to which her notebook was open was already covered in doodles of all kinds, including another monkey-rodent picture. She had made a list of things connected to the sensation of déjà vu: the scent of roses, Wakaba, Professor Nemuro, the color red, fencing, the monkey sketches. She had stared out the window for ages. And now, with twenty minutes left to sit through, she had run out of things to do in her History of Greek Art class.

For awhile she tried actually listening and scribbling notes, but the teacher droned onto too many tangents, and it seemed a worthless endeavor. She could read the textbook later.

Sigh. Glance at the window again.

She froze, the pencil dropping from her mouth. Out on the lawn stood the familiar figure of a woman with dark skin and long, purple hair. She was talking to squirrels, throwing them bits of food. Her demure posture, her gestures, her smile as she spoke to the animals – everything came together like pieces of a puzzle in Utena's thoughts.

_It's you!_ she realized, standing without giving the droning professor a moment of consideration and bracing her foot on the windowsill.

"Ah – Tenjou? What are you—"

Her teacher's startled objection faded out of her hearing as she leapt out the window, onto the lawn, and sprinted over to the woman who had sparked her memories. She waved and shouted.

"Hi there! Hime…" Her voice trailed off. The name eluded her.

"Hello." The young woman turned to her, smiling, and Utena was struck again by how familiar she was. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Anthy Himemiya."

"Himemiya." Utena smiled. Tears had come into her eyes, with the buoyant sensation of light filling her; she felt as if her heart would burst from joy. Why, she had no idea. It was the most inexplicable feeling – the most incomprehensible, silly, ridiculous emotion, flowing so strongly towards this person she had just met. It was as inexplicable as the mistrust she felt around Nemuro. But it was also unmistakable. For the first time since she had arrived at this university, she felt whole. "I'm… Utena. Utena Tenjou," she said, a rare blush turning her cheeks pink.

"Would you like to feed the squirrels?" Anthy offered a chunk of bread to her. If she thought there was anything odd in the fact that Utena had just leapt out the window to come running over to her and meet her, she did not say so.

"Sure." Utena took the bread and broke it into pieces. It felt oddly… right, somehow. Her behavior, this woman's reaction. As if some unspoken secret lay between them that each knew the other was aware of; but for the world's sake, they had to pretend.

"If you sit down and hold it in your hand, and keep very still, they will take it right out of your palm," advised Anthy.

Utena did as instructed, sinking into the grass while from the building behind her, her classmates stared out at her as if she had lost her senses. Anthy stood watching, smiling over her. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, though to any passerby both women would have seemed strange.

And that was how Utena met Anthy Himemiya.


	6. Boxed memories

Wakaba took an immediate dislike to Anthy. The girl was weird, and impossible to understand, with her reserved smile and vacant eyes. Wakaba had always believed the eyes were windows to the soul. If that was so Anthy Himemiya had no soul; her eyes conveyed neither personality nor thought, nor any aspect of being. They were like the glass eyes of a doll, and hiding behind them was a non-person who had somehow captivated the attention of Wakaba's best friend.

That was another reason Wakaba disliked her. She was reluctant to admit it, even to herself, but she was jealous. Utena had always been her best friend. There were others they hung out with, others whom Utena talked to and spent time with and cared about, but none who had ever mattered to her as much as Wakaba. Why Utena had always adored her so much, Wakaba was not sure. She knew, with the sort of intuitive knowledge that one has in sensing a change in the weather or a destined love, that Utena was a special person. Utena had always been that way – a person marked somehow to have extraordinary experiences and exist in the brilliant light of others' admiration. She was a star gleaming brightly in the sky, her presence overshadowing all others. Wakaba recognized this intangible quality in her, was drawn to her just as countless others were; and for some reason, Utena had picked her. It made Wakaba feel, like the moon glowing from the reflected light of the sun, somehow special, in her own small way. She had always been grateful to Utena for that.

But now… Now, here was Anthy. She had come out of nowhere, had just appeared this morning hovering behind Utena like an extension of her shadow, and Wakaba had seen instantly in Utena's protective stance towards her, in the loving expression in her blue eyes, that she had been replaced. Without warning, without even a show of effort, Anthy had come between them.

The worst part was that there was no explanation, no visible reason for it at all. Utena had laughed it off and introduced them, prattling about that feeling of "déjà vu" and how Anthy was another one.

Yes, Anthy was another one… But wherever they had known each other from before, Anthy and Wakaba had not been friends; she could feel that much.

Wakaba disliked the jealous, bitter person opening up inside of herself after Anthy's arrival, so after an afternoon of sulking, she resolved to humor Utena and do her best to befriend this strange, submissive creature that had latched onto her. Perhaps if she became friends with her, that demure façade would melt away, and a real person would exist underneath. She should just act as if everything was normal, and maybe it would turn out all right. At the very least, she had to try to be kind to Anthy for Utena's sake; she wanted Utena to understand that no matter what, her best friend Wakaba would always be there for her.

So it was that the next morning, Wakaba rose determined to do her best to be friendly to Anthy. She remembered that today was Thursday – the day Nemuro had his office hours – and that thought brightened her mood considerably. This was something private between her and Utena, a shared memory and a promise. She would finally meet the elusive (and so handsome!) professor, whom she had only seen from a distance.

Utena would almost certainly forget the roses, so Wakaba cheerfully determined to buy some herself. It was a good thing Utena had her to depend on for such things – otherwise, she'd never make a proper apology to the man!

She bought the roses before her first class. During her lunch hour, she skipped off to meet Utena at their usual spot in the center of the arts quad. Anthy and her little monkey-pet-thing were there, which disappointed her a little, but she quickly masked that emotion and flung herself, in her usual fashion, onto the back of her best friend.

"U-te-na!"

"Wakaba!" Utena staggered, choking at the slender arms wrapped around her neck.

"Did you forget about me Utena? You forgot our appointment, didn't you?"

"Can't… breathe…"

"I knew you would. Look, I even brought the roses!" Wakaba giggled and waved the small bouquet under Utena's nose.

"Roses?" Utena straightened as her friend at last released her. She looked thoughtful. "Oh, right… Professor Nemuro. Actually, I ran into him the other day, and I—"

"You what?" cried Wakaba. The pang of that disappointment was sharp. "You saw him without me?"

"No, well yes, but I just happened to run into him as he was going to pick up some packages. I told him I was sorry, and to pay him back I helped him carry some stuff." Seeing the expression on her face, Utena added with a defeated smile, "But, I guess he'd probably appreciate the roses…"

"Of course he would!" Wakaba declared, regaining her spirits.

"Um, Wakaba… not that I want to encourage you with Daron, but should you really be so eager to meet this guy when you've already got a boyfriend?"

"Utena, you are so silly! It's not like that. I just want to meet him because he's famous."

"Oh. So you want to be able to tell all your friends you met Professor Nemuro and gave him flowers?"

"Exactly!" Wakaba beamed at her.

"I get it." Utena glanced at Anthy, as if looking for her opinion. It was a small gesture, but one Wakaba did not fail to notice. There was such intimacy in the slight glance, in the silent communication between them…

She shook it out of her mind.

"Himemiya, do you mind if we make a quick trip to the professor's office before lunch?" asked Utena.

"Not at all," said Anthy, vacant smile in place.

"Of course she doesn't mind! She'll get to meet him, too," said Wakaba, trying to sound friendly although she could not bring herself to trust that girl's enigmatic personality. "Come on!"

So, the three of them set off. Within a few minutes they found themselves at the door to Nemuro's office. Utena knocked, and after he had called for them to come in, the three of them entered.

"Hi." Utena waved almost apologetically.

Professor Nemuro was exactly as rumors described him – slender, pale, and serious, with fine features and light pink hair that on anyone else would probably have looked ridiculous, but on him seemed perfectly natural. He dressed formally, like most professors, though to the button-down shirt and vest he added black gloves and tinted glasses, which together with his remarkable youth and pink hair made his appearance quite unique. His light purple jacket had been draped over the back of his chair.

Another part of the rumors was that he was dry and unfriendly, less like a human than a computer, seldom if ever cracking a smile and never laughing. From the silent stare with which he returned Utena's greeting, Wakaba judged this part of the rumors to be accurate, as well.

Utena thrust the roses at him. "Professor, this is the rest of my apology, for the black eye I gave you. I'm really sorry about that. This is my best friend Wakaba, who came along so she could meet you, and this is Anthy Himemiya."

As she spoke, Wakaba smiled and bowed politely to the professor. If there was any expression in his impassive face, she'd guess it to be annoyance. His gaze shifted from Utena to her, and paused on her face. Wakaba's mouth dropped slightly open. Her heart beat swiftly.

_Those eyes… I've seen eyes like his before… but they were red._

Before she could react to the feeling – almost like panic – that stirred inside her, the professor's attention had moved on, focusing on Anthy. His gaze lingered on her. Wakaba wondered what color his eyes were behind his glasses. Recovering from her surprise, she leaned forward and exclaimed, "I hope we're not intruding. I couldn't believe when Utena told me she did that!"

Her words drew the professor's attention away from Anthy. "These are my office hours. Visitors are free to enter," he answered Wakaba.

Wakaba smiled, pushing aside the strange feeling that she had experienced. She could talk that over with Utena later – right now, it was her one chance to interact with Nemuro. She took it eagerly, saying, "It must have shocked you! But Utena is goofy like that sometimes. I'm so glad you didn't report her! It really was just a mistake."

"Yes, I know."

"Did she tell you how she mistook you for my boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"Unbelievable, isn't it? I mean, you look nothing like him! Actually, you're a lot better looking than he is – don't tell him I said that, though." She giggled. "My friends are going to be sooo jealous that I met you. Professor, do you have a girlfriend?"

"No."

"Really? I can't believe it! Katie was sure you must have somebody. But I guess you're so busy with your work, you haven't time in your life for that sort of thing—"

She chatted happily, supplying nine-tenths of the conversation. Utena smiled sheepishly in the background, and Anthy was quiet as usual. Nemuro, though one could hardly have called him amiable, was not as cold as rumor had led Wakaba to believe. For the most part he supplied answers to her questions, and if he spoke only in monosyllables, at least his tone was polite enough. … or perhaps she was simply giving him the benefit of the doubt, because he was handsome and intelligent and respected. But he _was_ talking to her, wasn't he? Yes, he was, even if his gaze was more often on Anthy than on her.

Anthy… what was it everyone saw in Anthy?

"Thank you for the roses," he said at one point.

"Oh, the roses! They'll need water. I'll go and get some for them. Let's see… this will do, perfectly. Can I use your coffee mug, Professor?" Wakaba lifted the mug that had been sitting on the edge of his desk.

"Yes."

"Thanks!" She beamed at him, then hurried out of the room and down the hall to the water fountain. When she returned, the statement she heard from outside the door gave her pause. Instead of entering, she leaned forward to listen closely.

"You found what you were looking for."

The voice was Nemuro's. The reply that came afterwards brought a frown to Wakaba's face.

"Eh?" said Utena. "… Yeah, I guess I did."

Then came a small rustle of motion, and Anthy's soft voice: "We found each other."

_… found each other. What does that mean?_ wondered Wakaba.

Footsteps behind her startled her. She gave a faint squeal, reddening, and whirled to find a young man carrying a package.

"Is this Professor Nemuro's office?" asked the young man.

Wakaba nodded. "It is, yes. Um, is that package for him?"

"Yes."

"I'll give it to him." She took the box from the messenger and opened the door, hoping the blush had vanished from her cheeks so that Utena wouldn't guess she'd been eavesdropping. "Package!" she chirped to the group.

From the faint arch of Nemuro's eyebrow, he wasn't expecting any packages. Wakaba set it on the desk, and it was only as she put it down that she noticed that the label with Nemuro's address was decorated with a strangely familiar rose emblem. She gazed at the design in silence, before glancing around to see if the others had recognized it.

Utena and Nemuro, from their subdued expressions, both experienced the same sense of déjà vu as Wakaba. Furthermore, it might have been only her imagination, but… it seemed as if the professor was actually reluctant to open the box.

Startling everybody was Anthy's reaction. She laid her hands over the box and pulled it away from them.

"You must not open this," she said quietly.

All three stared at her in surprise.

"Why mustn't I open it?" asked the professor.

"It would not be a good idea," she said meekly, cradling the box to her chest.

"Explain that."

"Have you any bad memories or… dreams?" she asked.

The professor's negative response to this question surprised Wakaba. His eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward and removed the box from her grasp. "This could possibly be something important, relating to my research or otherwise; I must check its contents."

"Research?" echoed Anthy.

"He's working on a perpetual motion device," supplied Utena.

Anthy's eyes widened slightly, and she looked up at Nemuro with an expression Wakaba could not interpret. "In that case, perhaps it won't matter. You are still the same clockwork toy treading the tracks he laid out for you."

"What?" The professor frowned.

Anthy's eyes lowered. "What you seek cannot be found in that box, but you will look anyway."

"Huh?" said Utena, giving voice to the perplexity Wakaba was feeling.

Anthy and the professor continued to speak as if no one else was in the room.

"Who are you?" asked Nemuro.

_Just what I want to know_, thought Wakaba.

"I transferred here just recently." Anthy smiled at him, mask back up in place. "It's a good school, I've heard."

"What school did you transfer from?" asked Nemuro.

"Mount Holyoke. It's an all-girls school."

"Hm." He returned to his seat behind his desk. Wakaba got the distinct impression that he did not believe Anthy. "What classes are you taking?"

"Printmaking, an art history class, French, Spanish, and an independent study."

"I know a few of the French faculty. Who is your instructor?" queried Nemuro.

"Oh…" Anthy's face adopted an expression of dismay. "I never get the name right. We just call him 'professeur.'"

"What level class are you in?"

She smiled. "It's a beginner course."

"At what hour?" pressed Nemuro, whose hand had moved subtly across the desk to press a few quick keys at his computer.

Utena and Wakaba were both fascinated by this interrogation, and Wakaba was silently routing for the professor, hoping he would catch Anthy in a lie and force her to disclose her true identity, but at that moment a squeal and rustling sounds coming from a paper bag on the corner of his desk caught everyone's attention. Chuchu had gotten into the professor's lunch.

"Chuchu!" scolded Anthy, pulling the tiny rodent-animal from the bag. "How bad of you! That was the professor's. I'm so sorry professor." She bowed to Nemuro. "I'll make you a lunch to make up for it."

"No, that's all right." Nemuro's eyes remained on the rodent. It was the first time he had seen it.

Wakaba could not help but wonder at the convenient timing of that little animal in interrupting Nemuro's questions.

"No, it's my fault; I'll get you something else to eat right away," said Anthy. She turned to Utena. "Perhaps we could pick something up when we go to lunch?"

"Ah… yeah, we can do that," said Utena, shooting uncertain glances between Anthy and the professor.

Apparently the quest to replace Nemuro's ruined lunch was also the excuse for them to leave. Anthy insisted on making up for her pet's mistake, and when Utena followed Anthy to the door, Wakaba hurried after them.

"It was great to meet you!" Wakaba exclaimed to the professor. "Bye!"

"Sorry again for disrupting your work," said Utena. Her gaze lingered momentarily on the package, before she trailed Anthy out into the hall.

As they walked away, Wakaba stepped close to Utena and said, "See, Utena? He's not really that bad."

"Mm-hmm… yeah…"

"He was really patient about having his lunch ruined, too! Now we have another thing to apologize to him for."

"I guess."

"You should keep better track of your pets, Anthy! It isn't nice to let them steal people's food!" Wakaba scolded and prattled with her usual enthusiasm. She did not fail to notice how subdued Utena was, but she decided to overlook it for now; she wanted to be as friendly as possible around Anthy, and she did not want to talk about anything of importance while that girl wasnearby to overhear.

So, she kept up the friendly conversation all the way to the dining hall. Utena perked up again after awhile. Anthy was enigmatic as usual, and occupied herself feeding Chuchu strawberries from the cake she bought for dessert.

Somehow, through eating and conversation and worrying about classes, they forgot to bring the professor something to replace his lost lunch…

_(in the  
professor's  
office...)_

When they had gone, Nemuro ran a quick search through the university system and found, as expected, no trace of Anthy Himemiya's name. He sank down into his chair and stared at the package, a thin frown on his lips. His hallucination of Mikage in his reflection in the storefront window, followed by his drive this morning with Akio, had been enough to make him question the stability of his mind. He was still not certain how much of what he'd experienced had been real. Perhaps none of it had been; but if what Tokiko had said was correct, and it was he who had burned down that building…

_It is possible that in the period of my life in which Tenjou and Ohtori existed, I burned that building and somehow escaped prosecution. Then it would be feasible for me to be having dreams about it, stemming from the guilt in my subconscious mind…_

He leaned his head on his hand and removed his glasses so that he could rub his eyes.

_… could I have done such a thing?_

Recollection of the deep and terrible guilt he had felt in Tokiko's presence brought a more severe frown to his face. Yet he had his doubts about the reality of the encounter. For one thing, Akio Ohtori had driven him to that graveyard. Akio knew of his dreams, which Nemuro had never spoken of to anyone. If Akio was real, how did he know of those dreams? If he was not real, how had he driven him to the graveyard, and who had sent the package with the rose symbol that all of them had recognized?

Then there was Anthy, who was as much an enigma to him as Akio. She had come in with Utena Tenjou, like an extension of her soul… He had seen it in the first glimpse of Tenjou's face, in the contentment on Anthy's. They had found each other.

A part of him was blandly congratulatory to Tenjou. A part of him was intensely jealous. Mostly, though, he was confused. His life and Mikage's were merging together in ways he had never anticipated. He felt as if his grip on reality were falling apart, as if his life were fracturing, and he could not put the pieces together in any logical way.

Whereas Utena's life had just come together. _I am glad for her_, he decided. _She deserves it; I am glad for her._

That did not help him to solve his own difficulties, however, and as proof before him lay that unopened box. That rose design, so hauntingly familiar… A strong instinct urged him to heed Anthy's warning and leave it alone. However, Nemuro was a scientist. Ignoring the evidence, setting it aside on the basis of some vague intuition, would not help him to understand his position. He needed to gather all the information he could, including whatever lay in this package that had startled Anthy so much that she had briefly dropped her act in front of him (for he had seen, at the beginning, that such had not been her initial intention; she had to keep fooling Tenjou, after all).

He cut the tape that held the box closed, and opened it. Buried within white pieces of packaging foam he found…

Photographs. A dozen, or more, photographs. They were black and white, set in frames he recognized. He had taken these, himself, back when…

_When? Where was I? Who was I, then?_

He had the nagging suspicion that it was not he, but Mikage who had taken them. Looking closer, he thought, _Mikage would know these photographs. He will know them better than I do_.

But he wondered whether he wanted Mikage to see them. He was not certain that he wished to delve deeper, to risk further intertwining Mikage's life with his own. Was he encouraging his own madness, or merely uncovering the truth? He searched, frame after frame, and found… Wakaba Shinohara, Utena Tenjou, himself, and… the other names were just beyond his grasp, but he knew the faces. He recognized them all.

His hands found, buried in the foam, one final picture that he pulled out. Time seemed to grind to a halt as he stared at it, at the hundred youths staring back, their uniforms so familiar, so…

The picture moved. It flashed into color, and the young men all turned their heads to look at him. He dropped it.

"Sempai…"

"Mamiya?" Nemuro was startled at the voice that was familiar, but out of place.

The boy from his dreams of Mikage stood in a corner, looking sadly at him. The books on the shelves had faded away. The room was darker, stark, changing. He looked down at himself, and found he was not in his own clothes, but in the plain grey prison-like outfit of his counterpart.

_How? I didn't fall asleep. That picture—_

He remembered now. Those hundred youths were the victims of the fire that had burned down the building. He sank to the cold, concrete floor, shuddering as the faint echo of laughter reverberated from somewhere in the asylum, or perhaps from somewhere in the recesses of his mind -the laughter of those hundred youths. _Which one of us was it? Was it Mikage, or Nemuro? Which one of the two am I now?_

He closed his eyes. Slowly, he picked through the pieces of his fragmented recollections_. I am in the asylum with Mamiya, whom Nemuro has never seen. Clearly I am Mikage. I must have dozed off while looking at those pictures – unusual, but understandable since I slept so poorly last night._

There were other unexplained, unanswered questions, but as his brief experiment with Mamiya and the magazine had proven, there were many things that lacked rational explanation. _Or_, he added to himself_, it is just possible that my mind is so damaged that I am incapable of rational thought, and therein lies the problem._

Whatever reason there was – whether he was slowly losing his sanity, which seemed the most likely case, or whether there was some improbable physics-defying explanation for why he had two simultaneous lives – it was clear that he could not escape their gradual merging.

"Sempai, you look sad."

He did not reply to the voice.

"Sempai, why are you so troubled?"

A soft touch on his shoulder, and his eyes flew open. Mamiya knelt next to him, so close that he could feel his comforting warmth. The boy's hands were on his arm, a gentle concerned touch.

He clasped Mamiya's wrists and pushed him away. "Who are you?" he asked in a flat, emotionless tone.

"Sempai!" The boy looked startled.

"Tokiko's brother is dead. I visited his grave this morning." The environment was Mikage's, but the personality that found itself here incongruously was Nemuro. He stood up and looked down at the boy. "I'm not sure who you are… but I know you aren't who Mikage believed you were. What games were you playing with him, to convince him to burn down a building with a hundred students in it?"

"It was you who did that," the boy said softly.

"If that is so, why is Mikage in the asylum for it, instead of me?"

"You are the same."

"So it seems; but then why do I have two different lives? Why is one in the asylum, and one at the university? Why am I split in two?"

"Because you're crazy," said a voice.

He glanced up. He wasn't sure whether it was Mamiya, the nurse he'd briefly glimpsed in the doorway, or himself that spoke, but he suddenly found himself blinking at the open door to his office, in which a student stood, looking hesitantly at him. He was slumped over his desk, his arms resting on the pile of photographs, on which he had fallen asleep.

"Professor… I'm sorry," said the young man. "I didn't mean to disturb you, but…"

"No, it's my fault. I didn't sleep too well last night. I must've dozed off," murmured Nemuro, sweeping the pictures off the table and back into the box, which he shoved into the far corner of the room, to never be opened again. He adjusted his glasses and focused his attention on the student. "Now, what can I help you with?"

**_(Author's note: I had some trouble with this chapter... not sure if Wakaba's character is all right. The next chapter is more eventful, but this one is important in setting it up. Akio returns next chapter, so you can expect bad things to happen. _**

**_Hofftailing: You're right, it is going to be a very long road for everyone... especially the hapless author O.o How did I get myself started on such a long fic? Glad you're enjoying the story!_**

**_Celeste: I want to bring Tokiko back again later, but to be quite honest I'm not sure how to portray her. We see so little of her... it seems like something that has to happen, though. Nemuro/Mikage has to be forced to confront his past. I'm glad to have another fan of Nemuro enjoying the story! _**

**_Tenjou Utena: You can definitely expect Utena/Nemuro "hints" later in the story, but probably not more than that. It's hard to predict what'll happen and harder to summarize what I've plotted out so far, but I will say that their relationship is central to the story._**

**_BaKaGaiJiN: Thanks for the review! I'm trying to update regularly, I promise)_**


	7. A deal with the devil

"By the way, Himemiya…"

"Yes?"

Utena and Anthy sat out on the grass, eating their dinner together and watching the sun set in the western sky. It had been chilly earlier that morning, but the weather was fickle, and had grown warm enough to be comfortable. They were enjoying the tranquility and feeding some hungry squirrels. Animals, Utena noticed, seemed irresistibly attracted to Anthy. A sense of peace pervaded the world. All was right, except…

"About the professor. What was in that box?"

"I don't know," said Anthy, pulling apart a bit of her sandwich to offer it to a chipmunk.

"You don't know?" Utena was bemused. "Then why tell him not to open it?"

"I recognized the rose symbol on it and know that no good can come from it. Didn't you also recognize that symbol?"

"Yeah… I did," admitted Utena, thinking back on it. "But I didn't realize it meant anything bad."

Anthy did not comment.

After a moment, Utena added, "Speaking of these weird recollections, does the professor ever strike you as… I don't know. Someone you shouldn't trust?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. He is only a puppet."

Utena looked silently at her, puzzling that over. "Then, who's the puppeteer?"

"Utena…" Anthy's bright green eyes focused on her, and a smile touched the corners of her lips. "You can call me Anthy."

"Oh." Utena smiled. She let that change of subject pass. "Sorry. Just habit I guess. Somehow it just feels like… Himemiya seems familiar. All right. Anthy."

Anthy's shy smile faded as she said quietly, "I wish I could say I like this school… the truth is, I lied to Professor Nemuro. I am not a student here."

"I figured you weren't," said Utena. "Why did you lie to him?"

"I can't stay here too long, I'm afraid," Anthy went on, eyes downcast.

"Why not?"

She only shook her head, looking sad.

"Do you have to go home or something?"

"No. I need to attend college, but my application here was turned down. I will go elsewhere. Only… even though we have only just met, I will miss you very much when I go."

"Where are you going?" Utena asked, deeply troubled by the turn the conversation had taken. She had only just met her, only just _found_ her again. How could Anthy threaten to disappear so quickly?

"I haven't decided yet," Anthy answered her.

"Well… when you do decide, let me know," said Utena earnestly, taking her hand. "I… want to come with you."

"But, Utena—"

"If you want me to," she added softly.

Anthy's eyes widened, glimmering a little in the fading daylight. She averted her gaze, perhaps to hide the emotion in her face. "That would make me very happy."

"It's settled then." Utena smiled and squeezed her hand. "Whatever happens, we'll face it together."

"Yes…" Anthy gave a timid smile, and lightly returned the squeeze. "We'll face it together."

She seemed comforted by Utena's decision, but it did not entirely erase traces of anxiety from her manner. These were well hidden, but Utena could detect them. Something worried Anthy, and Utena suspected it had to do with that box that had been sent to the professor.

_What was inside it, I wonder…?_

It was during their walk home that Anthy informed her that she intended to leave later that day. Utena was dismayed.

"But we only just met!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, but I have to be getting back…" said Anthy.

"When will I next see you?"

"I'll write to let you know where I intend to attend school."

"What… you mean… Not until next semester? At the earliest? You can't possibly be serious!"

"I have no choice," she said regretfully.

"Of course you have a choice! Stay here until tomorrow at least. At least stay until then!"

Anthy frowned unhappily.

"Look, you can't just appear, claim to be someone I've lost, and vanish again," said Utena, starting to feel a little angry. "It doesn't work like that! I don't know who you are, but I know you're important to me. How can I understand it if you vanish so suddenly?"

"I will stay until tomorrow then," she said, "but no longer. I can't."

Utena's expression was one of hurt and defeat. "Until tomorrow then…" she said sadly, not comprehending this enigmatic young woman.

They walked home together mostly in silence, each woman lost in her own thoughts.

By the time it was dark, they had begun talking normally again, chatting as if nothing had happened. Neither of them referred to Anthy's impending departure. Since she had no place of her own, she acquiesced to Utena's insistence that she share her room that night.

Utena's dorm room had two beds, for it had originally been intended as a double, but Utena lived there alone. She cleared off the spare bed for Anthy, who in the meanwhile took it upon herself to tidy the entire messy room – much to the embarrassment of Utena. For awhile they stayed up and talked. Utena tried to get Anthy to open up a little, but ever since that incident with the box, Anthy had retreated into her demure and pleasant shell. She showed very little emotion, and their conversation, though cheerful and amiable, was shallow.

It wasn't until the lights were off and they were both in bed that her roommate's mask dropped a little.

"Utena…"

"Yes?" Utena opened her eyes. She found herself reaching out automatically, as if to take Anthy's hand, but the beds were across the room from each other. Instead, she simply looked at the other woman.

Anthy's green eyes were transfixed on her, but now the vacancy was gone from them. They were deep pools of emerald, their depths unfathomable, filled with thoughts and emotions that Utena could not discern.

It was this that Utena had been waiting for with such patience. Her easy acceptance of Anthy's odd ways did not signify a lack of curiosity; in fact, she was curious as hell about the woman, but somehow she knew that if she waited, if she was patient, Anthy would emerge freely from her shell. Their gazes met through the soft, silvery moonlight.

"If I were to vanish from your life, you would still be a prince," Anthy said softly.

"What are you…" Utena's question at her strange statement faded away, replaced by a peculiar, intuitive sort of comprehension. _You mean I would still be the same person… but that's not true. You make me whole. I can't explain it, or understand it, really, but somehow…_

Either she had spoken aloud without realizing it, or Anthy somehow divined her thoughts, for she smiled slightly and said, "You have a generous nature, but you will find other princesses to rescue."

"What are you talking about?" Utena pushed herself onto her elbows. "Why do you feel like you have to leave me? Why are you saying this to me now, this stuff about princes and princesses?"

"Do you remember the morning star?" asked Anthy.

"You mean Venus?" queried Utena.

"Lucifer, the dark prince who dreams of the power of Dios."

"Dios," echoed Utena. "You mean God?"

There was a long silence before Anthy said, "He is still suffering…"

"Who is?" Utena was utterly confused now. "This Lucifer guy? Is he the one who sent the package to Professor Nemuro?"

Something hidden came into Anthy's eyes. "Utena, have you heard the term 'crocodile tears'?"

"Yeah, it means someone is insincere in their show of sympathy, right?"

"The saying comes from the belief that crocodiles weep in order to lure in their prey. Their victims, feeling sorry for the weeping crocodile, come close to offer sympathy, only to be devoured. For this reason 'crocodile tears' means a hypocritical and insincere show of grief. However…"

"However?"

"I think perhaps the people who coined the term do not understand the nature of the crocodile. Perhaps it can't help what it is. Do you ever wonder if really, it is suffering inside while it lures in its prey and devours them?"

"I've never thought about it, I guess," admitted Utena, unsure where this conversation was leading, or what significance "crocodile tears" had to Anthy. "Even if it is suffering, it's not a very nice thing for the crocodile to do. It shouldn't prey on the sympathies of others."

"Perhaps not, but…"

"But?"

"That is the nature of the crocodile."

"Hmmm…" Utena wondered what the purpose of this odd conversation was.

"By the way, Utena…"

"Yes?"

"Did you know that in fact, crocodiles don't have tear ducts, so they can't weep?"

"I didn't know that." Their dialogue was getting stranger by the minute. Utena tried to figure out what mixed message might be behind the metaphor of crocodile tears that Anthy had just nixed by her fact-of-nature-trivia. She eventually gave up and asked, "What do crocodile tears have to do with Lucifer?"

"I can't help but feel sympathy for the crocodile," said Anthy. "Especially since I've also…"

"You've also what?"

"… it's nothing." The green eyes closed.

Utena sighed, swallowing her disappointment. She had felt so convinced, for a moment, that Anthy was going to explain everything.

This, like so much else, felt familiar. She had experienced it all before. As she closed her eyes, images of weeping crocodiles drifted through her mind; she tried to trace the thread of the conversation, to comprehend the link between Lucifer and the morning star and crocodile tears and Anthy and princes and princesses. She tumbled into slumber with a vision of a weeping crocodile on a white horse galloping into her dreams.

_(on  
central  
campus)_

Nemuro worked late that night, perhaps as a compensation for his lapse earlier that afternoon into the world of the asylum. He engrossed himself in the project, meaningless though it was, because it was sane and logical and measurable, and perhaps if he surrounded himself with enough hours of diligent, routine behavior, he might escape the fraying of his mind.

It worked during the many hours he spent there that evening. He thought not once of his dreams, experienced no more flashbacks, and the photographs were forgotten in the corner of his office.

It was only on his walk home that a specter returned to haunt him.

"Working late tonight, Nemuro."

He ignored the familiar sound of that deep voice.

"Did you make any progress on the project?"

He did not hear footsteps, yet the voice kept pace with him, always coming from within a few meters of him as he strode swiftly along the sidewalk.

"You can ignore me as long as you like, but that will not make me vanish."

He kept walking.

"… perhaps I should bring you another little memento of your past."

Nemuro halted and looked around. Evidently, Akio Ohtori was not going to leave him alone without some sort of acknowledgment. He glimpsed a tall figure, almost a shadow, leaning against the side of a building.

"I want nothing to do with you," Nemuro stated flatly.

"This is yours, I believe."

The shadow made a motion with his arm, and something small and white sailed through the air towards Nemuro. He caught it reflexively, and opened his hand to look at it.

It was a white ring, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, with a rose signet.

The hundred boys flashed in his vision. He dropped the ring.

"I wonder if you will have bad dreams again tonight?" mused Akio. "Though perhaps, it will not be so bad. Sometimes doing shameful things can be so pleasant."

Nemuro gave a frown at the unwelcome recollections that came with Akio's insinuation. "How do you know so much about me?"

Akio chuckled softly. "Perhaps I am a figment of your imagination."

"I doubt I would want to conjure so unpleasant a companion."

"Maybe you are unconsciously punishing yourself for crimes of the past," suggested the Chairman in an amused tone.

"Perhaps…" conceded Nemuro, less to Akio than to himself. Given the unreliability of his mind of late, it was impossible to draw a conclusive line between reality and fiction. The dreams undermined all logic. They were like something in a foreign language typed into a computer – there was meaning, but it could not be translated by the machine that had not been programmed to interpret it. Vague memories, intuition, dreams, hallucinations – they directly defied the clean-cut, objective and rational mode of thinking he had cultivated throughout his life. A hallucination that could pick up a real magazine with its imaginary fingers, two personalities sharing the same mind and separate lives – these were physical impossibilities; he acknowledged them as such, but had no explanation for them, except that perhaps the original programming in the machine was flawed, and he was misinterpreting the data.

"Do you want to escape these dreams?" queried the Chairman.

"Yes."

"I can arrange it for you. In answer to all the questions colliding chaotically in your brain, Professor Nemuro, you are only _one_ person. But, as you have long suspected and as has lately been verified to you by your increasing hallucinations, you are far from sane. Your mind is fractured, so much that you have fractured your own reality. I can repair it for you. I will make the dreams vanish. All you have to do, is tell me…"

"Tell you what?"

"Where is she?"

Nemuro could feel the man's smile, though it was too dark to make out his features. The immediate response he felt would have been appropriate was a cold and complete refusal, but doing that would not help his predicament.

He paused to consider the matter objectively.

The advantages of agreeing to Akio's bargain were self-evident. Assuming Akio could fulfill his promise, he would be glad to be rid of the dreams.

What about the negative consequences? He would expose Anthy Himemiya's whereabouts to this man who claimed to be her brother. Himemiya, however, was none of his concern. He mistrusted her nearly as much as Akio; whatever was going on between them did not involve him.

What if he refused? Himemiya's location would not be disclosed, but the dreams would persist, and Mikage's life would further complicate his own. It was becoming an unmanageable problem.

It seemed that the most rational choice was to accept the Chairman's bargain. So why did he hesitate?

It was intuition… the same intuitive sense that told him that Akio could indeed end his dreams also warned him not to strike any bargain with the man, no matter how advantageous. Nemuro silently considered the vague, undefined, mutable things that were his emotions, and weighed them against his objective reasoning. When he probed for some explanation for the mistrust he felt, he found nothing conclusive; for his suspicion was not rational, but instinctive. Or perhaps it was the echo of things forgotten… like the guilt he had experienced in Tokiko's presence.

Akio waited patiently, a silent, barely perceptible entity who may as well have been a shadow. It seemed to come as no surprise to the Chairman when Nemuro chose logic over intuition. The few concrete facts available to the professor made his decision a relatively simple one:

There was a possibility that Akio would eliminate the dreams in exchange for information about Anthy's whereabouts.

There was a possibility that Akio would fail to hold up his end of the bargain and Nemuro would disclose Anthy's whereabouts to no purpose.

Anthy meant nothing to him; therefore the loss if this occurred would be minimal.

The gain, should Akio fulfill his promise, would be significant.

With all possibilities weighed, the logical decision was to accept.

Casting aside the vagueness of intuition, he said, "She is with Utena Tenjou, a student at the university in 218 Balch Hall." Her address he had learned after his second encounter with her, when he had looked up her name for any clue as to how he knew her. That information, like anything he came across, was imprinted forever in his computer-like memory.

"I see," said Akio, the smile in his voice overpowering. The Chairman's presence receded, and his voice drifted to him from afar: "You have been most helpful. Your dreams will end tonight. From now on, you will be whole."

**_(Author's note: Bah! Nemuro you fool! Don't you know he's the devil? Don't do it! Meh heh heh. Ugh... I have an awful time trying to write Anthy's scenes. What happens after this chapter? Does Akio keep his part of the bargain? I think the outcome of it might be too predictable.  
Thanks for the review, Hofftailing! Akio's scene was rather brief, but it certainly has significant repercussions for all the other characters.  
As always, any comments/criticism/just-a-note-to-let-me-know-you're-interested-enough-to-read-the-fic, are very much appreciated! I'm thinking perhaps the story moves along too slowly, but such, alas, is my writing style...)_**


	8. An end to dreams

_**A/N: OMG, an update? O.o Impossible things do happen. This may be the slowest moving fanfic I've ever read or written, but lo and behold, another chapter. And if I ever manage to get the next few chapters written, the characters will get to Ohtori Academy, and we will see some duels at last, as well as all the familiar faces that ought to be in any Utena story. That's all a big "if," currently, though.**_

She dreamt of a prince.

In her dream, she stood before a long pathway into darkness. A red carpet rolled out before her, stark against the blackness of the void around her. At the end hung a figure, pierced by a million swords. It was a girl – a witch. But the girl was innocent. She was kind, and suffering so much. Why didn't the prince save her?

_I will save her._

She stepped towards that picture of eternal pain, determined to free the victim from her endless suffering, only to find herself cast into another place – a school – where bells tolled with the triumph of the victor and swords clashed in duels for supremacy.

The swords were wielded by shadows, dancing along the walls like puppets in a theatre, thrown there by the orange rays of the setting sun. She passed the shadows and climbed an endless staircase. There was an elevator, too. Up, down… it went both directions, down into hell and flames and a void where time ground to a halt and the only flowers were black. There, the grim reaper, Professor Nemuro's twin without glasses, pulled levers and switches of his perpetual motion device – only it wasn't a perpetual motion device; it was part of a grand puppeteering machine, and the levers led to strings that made the shadow players dance and swing their swords.

She cut the strings, destroyed the machine, and the evil professor, who turned out only to be a puppet himself, melted into a shadow and vanished.

After that she rode the elevator up, up high beyond the staircase, towards a castle floating upside down in the sky, where she had to go in order to save the princess who was really a witch who was suffering eternally at the hands of her mad brother. Along the way she was attacked by shadows, but they were too insubstantial to stop her. She reached the top, searching for that red carpet leading through the void to the witch.

But at the top, a million swords plunged into her, breaking the elevator. She fell from the sky, fell and fell and…

… she should have woken, then. She'd had this dream before, in different variations. Sometimes a prince appeared in it, sometimes Nemuro was not in it at all (he had been a recent addition), sometimes Wakaba was a shadow fencer who stood in her path. No matter what variation it came in, always it ended with her falling from the sky. But this time, it continued.

She found herself in a white, hazy, indistinct place. She was lost, but not afraid or unhappy. On the contrary she was enjoying herself, exploring and learning and feeling the world as if for the first time. With her was the witch, who had turned into Anthy Himamiya, and held her hand as they walked along, laughing and talking. Somewhere the mad prince was looking for them, but he was trapped in the upside-down castle and could not reach them out here.

But… there were red eyes on them, following them. One of the shadow fencers had somehow escaped, and trailed them. He was not sufficient to worry them – she could cut through him with a flick of her wrist, as easily as she had the shadows around the elevator. Unfortunately, she had not noticed the string attached to him. He tugged it, then he was lifted out of sight like a doll cast aside, and in his place descended the puppetmaster.

"I've finally found you, Anthy…" he said in a deep, husky voice.

"No – I won't let you take her back!" she cried, raising her sword.

"What can you do about it?" he said, chuckling. "You're still asleep. If you want to try to rescue her again, you'll have to climb the staircase to the heavens and tear apart the castle… If you ever wake up."

He snapped his fingers, and darkness descended on her. She fought, tried to remain conscious, but she found herself sinking, sinking into…

Utena's eyes opened. She stared at the ceiling of her room, white and pristine – the only part of her room, actually, that was clean, at least until Anthy's arrival yesterday evening.

"Man, what a weird dream… Anthy, do you ever—" She had turned her head to address her roommate, but her voice trailed off at the sight of the empty bed across from her. "Anthy…?" She sat up, wondering briefly if Anthy had really been kidnapped, then dropping that dream-induced notion for the more likely possibility that she had risen early and left. "No way… she wouldn't leave me like that." Disappointment, then hurt crept into her bright blue eyes. She rose and quickly dressed, determined to search for her friend. Maybe she had just gone out to get breakfast.

"Anthy, if you really ditched me… But you promised you would stay!"

She stuffed her books in her backpack and swung it over her shoulder before jogging out the door. Neither in the dorm dining hall, nor in the nearby café did she catch a glimpse of Anthy.

"It can't be… It wasn't supposed to be like this. She can't leave me like this!"

Still refusing to believe Anthy was really gone, she dashed back to her room and looked again. There was nothing, not a trace of the young woman. Nothing except…

There, fluttering on the desk from the breeze let in by the open window. It was a note, weighted down by a stapler. Utena closed the window, wondering why Anthy had opened it, and picked up the note. It read:

"I am sorry I had to leave early. Please don't be upset, and don't worry about me. Your kindness has meant a great deal to me, more than I can possibly say. I promise you I will never forget you. Sincerely yours, Anthy Himemiya."

Utena crumpled the note in her first and stood silent, her jaw clenched and her eyes staring fixedly at the wall, as if she might burn a hole through it.

_Anthy… How could you do this to me?_

Her hands trembled slightly. It was with an effort that she stopped their shaking and opened the note again, looking down at it and blinking back tears.

_… did you really choose to leave here early?_

She slumped heavily into her chair, a frown on her lips as she set the note on the desk.

"' no good can come from it,' huh? What was in that box…?" Her eyes narrowed. She bit her thumbnail and looked carefully over the letter again. It was polite, distant, formal… Secretive. There was something hidden there that Anthy had not written.

_I think I'll go and have a talk with the professor._

_(In  
the  
asylum...)_

He woke slowly, gaining perception of the light seeping under his lids, first, and then feeling the weight of his limbs, which were heavy as lead. He mustered the strength to open his eyes, but could not move otherwise. His body was dead weight. From his lethargy and the haziness of both his thoughts and his vision, he knew he was suffering from the effects of a drug. The sedative, or the medication, or both.

Wavering unsteadily in his vision were blank grey walls, lights blaring overhead. The asylum.

_Not here… why am I waking here? The dreams should have ended_.

_… or did they?_ Sudden suspicion flared inside him, merging with the bright ceiling lights to bring a shock of pain to his skull. He closed his eyes. Akio had never specified which world was the dream, which the reality. Nemuro had logically assumed that the world in which Akio appeared to him, in which Tenjou and Himemiya existed, was reality; but what if that assumption was wrong? What if both worlds had equal validity, and Akio simply chose the more convenient to merge him into?

_No, that does not make sense, cannot be physically possible, the existence of two simultaneous separate worlds overlapping in a shared space… Perhaps the entire thing – Ohtori, Tenjou, Himemiya, my job at the campus – all of it was the bizarre concoction of my diseased brain._

It was too much to think of, through the thick haze of the drugs and the sluggishness of his system. He waited patiently for the lethargy to wear off, for the day to pass and the minutes to tick by. A blanket of indifference settled over him.

Two theories developed from the haze of his mind: the first, that he had been in the asylum to begin with, and that everything outside the asylum was illusion created by an unstable mind. This was the scientifically sound idea, the one that explained away all the surreal experiences, and summarized it all in one problem: his lack of sanity. As for the teahouse evidence Mikage had gathered? The therapist had been correct – he had overheard it from someone at the asylum.

The second theory accepted the simultaneous existence of two separate but linked realities, which was why the teahouse was real in both. According to that theory Akio Ohtori's words about Mikage fracturing his reality were correct, and somehow the Chairman not only had access to both realities, but had some power over them.

"Sempai."

He gave a soft sigh at the sound of that voice. He did not want company, and had no desire to see Mamiya.

"Sempai, are you all right?"

He tried to speak, but found that what sound came from his lips was barely a whisper_. Whatever medication they gave to me was far too strong_.

"I'm sorry, sempai… Something has upset you."

The touch of gentle fingers brushing back his hair brought his eyes open. He looked at Mamiya's familiar, youthful face, and an objection came to his lips; but he was too tired to speak, and so he said and did nothing as the boy stretched out next to him.

Mamiya leaned against him and stroked his hair.

"Go away," he tried to say.

"What's that, sempai?" Mamiya leaned closer.

The boy's warmth brought stirring recollections that should have been pleasant to Mikage, but in fact only caused him discomfort. He made the supreme effort to move his arm and rest his hand on the boy's shoulder, pushing him away. "You are not Mamiya," he said. "He died, many years ago."

This speech, though delivered in a voice sapped of strength by weariness, was nonetheless entirely firm in its conviction. Mamiya disappeared from beneath his hand. He closed his eyes, thinking that perhaps he was not Mikage but Nemuro, stuck again in Mikage's world.

No… there was no sense in differentiating the two anymore. He was himself, lying on a bed in a mental institution, drugged, tired, drifting…

He woke several hours later, feeling somewhat more alert and hungry though still unwell. His sleep had been dreamless. He sat up and fingered the fabric of the sheets, ran his hand along the cold wall, and listened to the sound of footsteps echoing loudly off the tile and concrete of the corridor outside.

His sleep had been… dreamless. Which meant…

This was reality. He stood, feeling with utter certainty now that whatever divide had existed in his mind had been closed. Akio had fulfilled his promise.

He had been cruelly tricked, and if he had found the emotion to care he would have been angry at both his manipulator and himself, for having stumbled into this trap. As it was, he found his response was indifference. What existed to differentiate this place from the campus, anyway? Very little, in the minds of the two men who had lived in those worlds. They had both moved without purpose, simply existing from one day to the next. He found when he realized that he had been tricked, that he had no reaction at all. Only acknowledgement of that fact.

"Nemuro," he said flatly to himself, "welcome to Chihido Mental Hospital."


	9. A trip to the asylum

Utena was not fooled. "Called in _sick?_ More like he wants to avoid us. I know he's got something to do with Anthy's disappearance!"

"Oh, come _on_, Utena. She was a weird girl. She just left, that's all," said Wakaba, rolling her eyes. "Besides, the professor wouldn't do something like that. He's a nice person."

"Like hell," growled Utena, closing her fist over the note Anthy had left for her. She had kept it with her, as if the key to finding her friend lay in its sparse sentences.

"You're just suspicious because you had that dream about him," decided Wakaba.

"It's not just the dream. There was something in that box that he didn't want us to see. I want to know what it is. Besides, calling in sick on the same day that Anthy disappears is too much of a coincidence!"

"You are sooo overreacting. Just wait until tomorrow. I'll bet he'll talk to us then. Just wait and see!"

Utena grumbled, disliking the delay and not trusting Nemuro, but she was persuaded by Wakaba's persistent coaxing, and by the simple logic of the fact that indeed, she had no evidence to support her suspicion of the professor. So he had received a package – what did that prove? Anthy herself had admitted to ignorance about the box's contents. Also, it wasn't as if Anthy had just vanished. The note proved her leaving was voluntary.

Even so, Utena was restless and uncomfortable all day. She waited anxiously for some reply from Nemuro, whom she emailed and called, leaving a message on both his home and office answering machines. He did not bother to call back – which was perfectly typical of him, but it made Utena angry all the same.

Over the weekend no news was forthcoming from any direction. Utena's anxiety decreased slightly with the simple, mundane routine of her days, but even during the middle of a shopping trip with an excited Wakaba she was subdued. Monday rolled around at last, and she again called in at the professor's office. It was empty, so she skipped her History of Greek Art class to attend the physics seminar he taught.

The teacher was a substitute.

"Okay," Utena admitted to herself as she left, "that's too far even for Professor Nemuro to go to avoid someone… I guess he really must be sick." That thought brought with it both disappointment and some guilt, for she had been pinning blame on him unfairly.

Wakaba's conversation with her two hours later brought her suspicions flaring back again.

"Utena!" cried Wakaba, glimpsing her across the arts quad. "Utena! Wait up!"

She turned around, waving to her friend and smiling. "Yo, Wakaba. What's up? You look flustered."

"I just heard the most awful news!" exclaimed the girl, eyes wide with agitation. "My advisor was talking to one of the TA's about it. Professor Nemuro had a nervous breakdown, and admitted himself into a mental hospital. Now he's on an indefinite leave… Oh, Utena, isn't it terrible? And he seemed just fine last week!"

The smile vanished from Utena's face. "He what? Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes! It wasn't just a rumor – my faculty advisor is good friends with the head of the physics department. That poor man! I feel terrible for him!"

Utena frowned. She was silent for several minutes, contemplating while Wakaba moaned sympathy for the professor, and lamented the loss of such a young and handsome teacher (who would doubtless be replaced by some boring old grouch).

"He disappeared… and Anthy did… on the same day," she said to herself, expression darkening.

"Yes! And here you were blaming him for getting rid of her. Utena, don't you feel awful?"

"Wakaba," said Utena sharply, "we're going to get into Professor Nemuro's office."

"Wha--?" Wakaba's eyes rounded.

"He had a nervous breakdown the day after he received that package, right? Anthy told him it might be trouble, and he opened it anyway. Maybe I'm just crazy, and their disappearances are unconnected and the box has nothing to do with it all, but I have a hunch about all this and I can't rest until I check it out." She gazed with determination at her friend. "Are you with me?"

"Umm… Well, you're right… he did act a little funny about the package. What if it was something that upset him? Hmmm… All right!" she decided energetically. "If you're going to investigate, Utena, I'll be right along with you! That's what I'm here for! Let's go and get to the bottom of this!"

"Right. First we have to figure out a way into his office."

"Leave that to me!" declared Wakaba, smiling. She set off towards the physics building, and Utena followed, wondering what she had in mind.

She found out ten minutes later, as Wakaba lamented to her faculty advisor, "The last place I had it was in Professor Nemuro's office… I think I must have dropped it when we brought him the flowers. Could we just check real quick? Without my wallet I can't do anything. I really need my ID and stuff…"

"Hold on, let me call and see if I can find someone to open it for you," said the advisor, picking up the phone.

Wakaba turned back to Utena and gave a grin and a thumbs up.

Utena smiled back at her.

Five minutes after that, the building manager opened the door to Professor Nemuro's office, and Wakaba called his attention to the flowers withering on the desk and explained how they had brought them there while Utena furtively snuck to the corner and opened the box.

Photographs. Over a dozen framed photographs. They sent her mind reeling, brought a piercing pain into her head, and flashes of recollection.

_These people… I know these people…_

She had to work quickly, though. Wakaba could only distract the man for so long. She sifted through, trying to ignore the almost painful sensation of remembrance each picture brought. She looked at each and every one for some clue. What if it was something only Nemuro would have remembered? What if—

The corner of an unframed photograph of the professor caught her attention. She lifted it, wondering why it had been removed from its frame. On the back, written in neat, precise letters, was last Friday's date, and the address of Chihido Mental Hospital. Utena slipped the photograph into her pocket.

"Hey you, don't go messing with his stuff," growled the building manager.

Utena smiled back at him. "Oh, sorry. He showed us this on Friday, actually. It arrived while we were visiting. Did you know he has a picture of you, Wakaba?"

"Really?" Wakaba stepped forward.

Utena lifted the framed image of Wakaba, wearing an unusually fierce expression and dressed in a sort of military uniform. _Puppets_, flashed through her head. _Black rose_.

Wakaba's mouth dropped open at the sight of the image. She froze, her eyes widening and growing distant.

_Yes, we both remember something not right here… Something hidden and forgotten._

"Come on, girls, look for the wallet," said the building manager.

"Um… ah…" Wakaba stammered.

"Well, it's not on this side of the room anywhere," said Utena, rising. She cocked her head. "Find anything, Wakaba? Say, maybe we should give those roses some more water."

"Nah. They're almost dead anyway," said the building manager. "Leave 'em. The janitor'll take care of it."

Wakaba had recovered her senses. She took her wallet out of her pocket and bent down by the desk as if she had just found it. "Here it is! Thank goodness, I was afraid it wouldn't be here!"

"You found it? Great," said Utena, smiling.

"Good. Okay, let's go," said the building manager.

The two young women allowed themselves to be ushered out, and thanked the man for their assistance. When he had gone, Wakaba looked at Utena.

"Maybe you're right about this business. I don't like that he had that photograph of me. It's… creepy. Where did he get it from, anyway?"

"You don't remember where it's from?"

She shook her head. "No… I've never seen those clothes before. I don't… That's the weirdest part." She suddenly looked indignant. "Maybe it's a composite! What if he has some weird fetish for girls in military uniforms? He might have put my face on someone else!"

"I don't think he's that kind of guy. Anyway, I get the feeling that picture was real," said Utena. She gave a slight smile as she pulled the photograph of Nemuro from her pocket and offered it to Wakaba. "We can ask him about it when we see him."

"Huh?" Wakaba examined it, and found the address. "So he really did go to a mental hospital. I knew it!"

"Yeah. I wonder why, though. Now that I've seen what was in that box, I know there's more to it than just a nervous breakdown. I bet he knows what it's all about, too. Looks like it's a bit of a drive, though. How about it. Are you up for it?" She looked questioningly at her friend.

"You bet!" declared Wakaba, clapping a hand into her fist. "There's a mystery here, and we're gonna solve it! Got any classes left today?"

"Nope."

"Then let's go!"

_(Later,  
at Chihido  
Mental  
Hospital)_

Professor Nemuro was not listed as a patient at Chihido Mental Hospital. Utena frowned, puzzled and disappointed as the receptionist informed her that no one of that name had been admitted there.

"But this is where he's supposed to be, isn't it?" said Wakaba, distraught.

"I'm sorry, but no one of that name is here," said the receptionist.

"Thank you anyway," murmured Utena, disappointed. She and Wakaba turned away.

"I was so sure he'd be here, too!" exclaimed Wakaba, clenching her fist. "And it was such a long drive…"

"Wait a minute!" Struck by an idea, Utena hurried back to the desk. "Excuse me, Miss? My brother might have admitted himself under the name Mikage. Souji Mikage. Is he listed?"

The woman looked skeptically at her, then looked him up. "… Yes, he was admitted here a few days ago."

"All right! Can we see him?"

The receptionist picked up the phone. "I'll find out. I don't think he's allowed visitors, but…"

"I'm his sister, though!"

"Just a minute, Miss…" Into the phone she said, "Hello? Yes, I've got a young lady here who wants to visit her brother, Souji Mikage. He's not accepting visitors?"

"Please," whispered Utena, giving the most round-eyed, teary expression she could muster. "It's urgent."

In the background, Wakaba exclaimed, "Ooooh, you have to let us see him! We drove all this way and he's her brother and he hasn't seen her in ages and we know he'd like to see us if you just tell him we're here, you can't really stop us from seeing family, can you? It's too cruel! Please just tell him we're here. Tell him it's us and he'll let us in!"

The receptionist continued to speak softly into the phone, looking annoyed at Wakaba's endless stream of objection. Finally, she set it down and turned to them. "They're going to ask for permission. You can take a seat and wait."

"Thank you!" said Utena earnestly.

"Thanks so much!" chirped Wakaba.

They sat down in uncomfortable plastic chairs with thin padding on them, and kept silent for the ten minutes they had to wait until a doctor came in to see them.

"Are you the two young ladies here to see Mr. Mikage?"

"Yes! That's us," said Utena.

"He's agreed to see you. Please come with me."

The two young women followed the doctor out of the reception area. He brought them down a long, narrow corridor, and opened the door at the end into a small room that was apparently intended as a visiting area of sorts. Professor Nemuro, dressed in a plain grey uniform and without his purple glasses, sat patiently waiting in one of the inexpensive metal chairs.

"Professor Nemuro!" exclaimed Wakaba, stepping past Utena.

His red eyes focused on her, hovering momentarily on her features before moving to Utena, whom he gazed at more fixedly.

"Tenjou." He spoke her name as if he had not expected to see her.

"You have fifteen minutes. If you need anything, just pick up that phone there," said the doctor, gesturing to a phone on the wall.

When he had left them alone, Utena turned to Nemuro. "Professor, what's going on? What are you doing here?"

"Why did you have a picture of me in that box?" demanded Wakaba, in a rather accusing tone, before she added with concern, "Did you really have a nervous breakdown, Professor?"

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I asked that question first!" said Utena.

"I made a deal with the Devil, and this is where I ended up. What about you?"

She frowned at him. "Professor, last Friday after you opened the box, what made you decide to check yourself into this place? And why under the name Mikage?"

"Check myself in…? Is that how it's explained, then," he said dryly.

"How what's explained? You aren't making any sense." Utena was befuddled.

"Never mind. It's nothing you need to worry about. The fact is that I am here. Tell me why you bothered to find me."

"We're worried about you!" said Wakaba.

"We found the photographs that were in that box," said Utena solemnly. "Also, Anthy has disappeared."

"Disappeared…?" The first trace of emotion appeared on the professor's face then. He looked concerned, and a slight frown touched the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, she's gone, but she left me this note." Utena pulled it out of her pocket and handed it to him. "Do you know anything about it?"

He opened the note and skimmed it. "No, I…" Then he paused, eyebrows knitting over thoughts Utena could not guess at. He seemed to come to some decision, for he looked at her with sudden sternness and said, "Your friend has been taken by him."

"'Him'?" echoed Utena and Wakaba simultaneously.

"Yes. By the Chairman of Ohtori Academy."

"But… why would he…"

"He's her older brother. His name is Akio Ohtori. He is the man who sent me the box of photographs."

"How do you know about all this?" Utena glared at him and balled her fists. She leaned forward. "Listen, professor, I don't know what sort of game you're playing, but whatever it is, I want answers! Why did you have Wakaba's picture, and what's going on with Anthy?"

"I don't have answers," said Nemuro, simply. "Even if I tried to explain, it wouldn't make any sense to you. The only advice I can give you is to look up the name of the school and try to locate the Chairman. It was he who sent those pictures, so you can ask him for an explanation of them."

Utena relented. "Fine. But tell us what you're doing here, anyway. Did you really have a nervous breakdown?"

"Worse, actually. Significantly worse. But now I am here, so it doesn't matter."

"Oh no, Professor, you can't really want to be in a mental hospital!" said Wakaba. "You're so brilliant! And besides, it's obvious you're not crazy."

"On the contrary, it's become increasingly clear to me that I am."

"You mean… you mean you actually want to be here?" she said, aghast.

He shrugged. "I have no wants."

Utena frowned. "Professor… what was in those photographs, exactly, that made you run to this place? And why under the name Mikage?"

"As I already said, even if I explained, you wouldn't understand. I've told you all I can to help you."

"But—"

Before they could object, he lifted the phone and said into it, "Our visit is done. They're ready to leave now." He hung it up.

Utena frowned. "Professor…"

"One more thing," he said to her, his red eyes cold, sharp – reminding her so much of that puppetmaster in her dreams. "The Chairman is a dangerous person. Do not trust him, and make no bargains with him. Deal with him as you would the Devil. That way, you might be safe."

"Safe?" echoed Wakaba, eyes wide.

He refused to speak further, however. The doctor arrived to escort him back to his room.

As he left, he caught Utena's gaze. His warning flashed again through her mind.

_Deal with him as you would the Devil._

"Akio…" She repeated the name softly to herself, wondering at its familiarity. Somehow, it was so intimate… "Akio…"

_(A short  
while  
later...)_

As the doctor led him to his room, he said quietly, "Tell me… when was I admitted to this hospital?"

"Oh, ah… It was just last week, wasn't it?"

"Was it?"

"Yes, it was."

"I see." He smiled to himself as he entered his room. The doctor closed the door behind him, and he sank down onto his bed, the smile fixed on his face, wry and self-mocking and a touch bitter as he thought to himself, _Last week… So that's the explanation for what happened to me. That's how it seems in the real world._

_But that's not how it is, is it? The Chairman of Ohtori Academy did this to me. He plotted the whole thing. All this while, I have been his puppet, and everything – the dreams, the madness, the help I gave him in finding his sister, and the promise of an end to the dreams that also ended my freedom – all of it was plotted out to perfection, right down to the ironic twist at the end. Well done, Akio Ohtori. For all that I am the victim in this sordid scheme, I have to give credit where it is due; very well done._

The smile vanished as he thought of Utena Tenjou and her exuberant companion, Shinohara.

_Tenjou… If it's you, the Chairman will surely be defeated._

His eyes half-closed at the remembrance of his final bargain with Ohtori, sealing Himemiya's fate by his indiscretion, causing the disappearance that had drawn Tenjou to seek him in a desperate search for the thing most precious to her. It was his fault that that precious thing had been snatched away again, after being absent for so long.

A faint sense of unease stirred in him. It was a mild discomfort, fluttering in his chest, and he recognized it as one of those emotions that he so rarely felt as Mikage, and even less as Nemuro. It was something his meeting with Tokiko had revived in him so painfully he had felt nauseous, but otherwise it was foreign… guilt. He regretted what he had done, not because it had ended in his permanent existence in an asylum (that was something he deserved, for all that he could tell), but because she had not deserved it. The sensation of remorse did not sit well with him. He was not used to it, feeling for others… this sense of a mistake. He frowned at the discomfort that would not fade.

_What is done is done. I have served my purpose for him, used like any good puppet and cast away… Tenjou will beat him. I have caused obstacles for her, but at least I know she will overcome them. _

How he was so certain of that, he could not explain. It was one of those things he recognized, as he had recognized his guilt towards Tokiko and his mistrust of Ohtori. Tenjou would challenge the Chairman of Ohtori Academy, fight for Himemiya's freedom, and emerge victorious.

That thought eased the remorse to a dull ache that rapidly faded. He mentally wished the young woman good luck, and after that put the matter out of his mind.

_**(A/N: Sorry if this chapter was rougher than some of the previous ones. Fancy: Thank you so much for your kind, in-depth review! It motivated me to get off my lazy arse and post something. You're absolutely right about Nemuro/Mikage - I sort of want to shake him and yell at him, too. I feel that way with just about all angsty anime characters I come across... and there are lots of them! But Nemuro's way of dealing with the world fascinates me. **_

_**I'm glad you like the way the characters are portrayed. I haven't seen the series in a long time, so I was a bit worried about how I was writing them... especially Wakaba and Anthy. I usually don't write serious fanfiction, but the storyline idea for the fractured reality came into my head, and I just had to put it to down in writing. The chapter you mentioned, with Mikage losing it, is probably my favorite. :D**_

_**Thanks for reading!)**_


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